Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 2. Whole No. 822, February 2010

Fear No More by Peter Tremayne

Peter Tremayne is one of the fiction-writing pseudonyms of renowned Celtic scholar Peter Berresford Ellis. Most of the stories that have appeared in this magazine under the Tremayne byline belong to his series set in ancient Ireland, featuring Sister Fidelma, a religieuse who is also an advocate in the legal system of the time. The two most recent stories we’ve received from the author, including this one, are set instead in Elizabethan England and star Master Drew Hardy, a constable of the watch.

A wailing March wind was blowing from the northwest along Bankside, causing the Thames to move in choppy wavelets and froth an angry white around its quays and the massive piles of the great London Bridge. Wisps of thatch were being blown hither and thither among the debris of the streets, plucked from the houses and even from the roof of the stately Globe Theatre. The wind howled down Pepper Street, causing the painted wooden sign of the Pilgrim’s Wink Tavern to rattle and shake in spite of its iron fastening.

Screwing up his eyes against the icy smack of the wind, Master Hardy Drew, Constable of the Bankside Watch, opened the lattice window on the first floor of the tavern. He held it ajar a fraction in order to lean out, pull closed a loose, banging shutter, and fasten it before, thankfully, securing the window latch again.

It had been a cold winter and the elderly queen, insisting on going for her walk in the February chills, had caught cold and had been ailing since. In fact, the talk was that the poor lady would not recover. She lay in her palace at Richmond surrounded by members of her privy council and attended by her physicians and even the elderly Archbishop John Whitgift of Canterbury. All that day, Sunday, the nation had offered prayer for her recovery. Master Drew himself had gone to the church of St. Saviours to offer his supplication, but it seemed a forlorn hope. Yet, after forty-five years, it seemed impossible to imagine England without Elizabeth upon its throne.

He turned back into the room that he rented on the first floor of the tavern and rubbed his forehead to massage warmth back into his cold flesh. The distant cry of a night watchman proclaiming the hour turned his thoughts to bed. He had finished the piece of cold mutton pie and the pint of ale that comprised his supper and glanced undecided at the dying embers of the fire. He paused wondering whether to place another log on it and continue reading for a while longer.

Above the threatening cry of the wind and the occasional bang and crash of some object being pushed along the cobbled street before it, he suddenly became aware of a new sound. The rattle of a coach on the stones outside and the nervous whinny of horses caught his ear. Then he realised the coach had halted outside. He stood, head to one side, listening. Sure enough, there came a thunderous knocking on the door below. He made no stir for he heard Master Cuttle, the landlord, already grumbling at the door. Only a moment passed before he heard rapid footsteps on the stair and there came a knock on his own door.

In answer to his invitation, it swung open and Master Cuttle stood nervously on the threshold for a moment.

“Gen’leman to see you, Master Drew,” he mumbled before scurrying off.

A tall man of some fifty years entered and pushed the door behind him. Master Drew caught the sweet smell of a tincture of roses, noted the finery of the cloak and hat, which the man proceeded to cast off without waiting for an invitation, throwing them carelessly over the nearest upright chair. His clothing not only proclaimed him a gentleman but a man of some status and substance.

“Do you recognise me, Master Drew?” he demanded without preamble.

Master Drew’s features had formed a frown of recognition. He had seen the attorney general of England several times when his duties took him north of the river to the law courts of the realm. He made a hurried bow.

“Sir Edward. Please take a seat before the fire and tell me how I may serve you at this hour?”

At the same time, Master Drew moved quickly to the fireplace to put the extra log on the embers.

Sir Edward Coke moved unsmilingly to the indicated chair.

“I have heard good things of you, Master Drew,” he said, as he seated himself. “I have heard others say that you have a reputation as a solver of puzzles. A man with the ability to supply solutions to the most difficult conundrums and withal a man of discretion. Is this not so?”

Master Drew grimaced.

“I am not responsible for what others say, Sir Edward. I can only say that I have had a little success since my appointment as constable here on the Bankside.”

Sir Edward smiled quickly, as if satisfied with the answer.

“Modesty may be a virtue, Master Drew, but it does not put a pension in your pocket or put a prefix before your name.”

“My ambition is to keep my name and save a little to buy a small farm out beyond Moorfields where I might, in simple comfort, spend the twilight of my years.”

“Modest enough. But with your talent, ambition should look further.”

“I am well content. But I fear it was not talk of my ambition that was your reason for coming to call here on such a night.”

Sir Edward sighed.

“Indeed, good Master Drew. I have a puzzle to set before you. I will pay you well for your consideration of the matter.”

Master Drew raised an inquisitorial eyebrow.

“Perhaps you would be so good as to elucidate the matter?”

“I will tell you in the coach. We have to go to Holborn, north of the river.”

“But the gates on the bridge will be closed. And I have no jurisdiction on the north bank of the river.”

Sir Edward laughed.

“The gates of London Bridge will open to me. I am the attorney general and will tell you where your jurisdiction is.”

Master Drew sighed deeply, casting a wistful look at the fire where the log he had recently placed on the embers was blazing merrily.

It was scarcely fifteen minutes later when, having given instructions to Master Cuttle to have a care of the fire and seizing his worn but woollen cloak and hat, Master Drew found himself north of the river, seated in the attorney general’s coach. They had crossed London Bridge with amazing rapidity. The sentinels at the southern Stone Gate and then at the northern gate marked by Nonsuch House had given one glance at Sir Edward’s coat of arms emblazoned on the carriage doors and had waved it through with all speed. Sir Edward was relaxed in his seat opposite Master Drew.

“In plain truth, Master Drew, the young cousin of an acquaintance of mine has been killed. Two men set him upon as he came to the town house of my acquaintance in Holborn. He had not long been in London, I’m afraid, and took a fancy to a stroll around the Chancery Courts and gardens, returning on foot at dusk. We need to be satisfied that this was either an attack by thieves to rob the unfortunate young man or whether there was some more sinister design.”

Master Drew was surprised.

“Sadly, as you well know, sir, such attacks are not unknown. The footpads will have vanished into the slums around the Fleet. If you are asking me to track them, I fear I shall not be successful. That is, unless they took some singular object by which they can be identified if and when they attempt to sell it.”

Sir Edward was shaking his head.

“The young man was not robbed, sir. At least, his purse was still on his body.”

“Then were the thieves disturbed?”

“They were seen bending over the body, but they had plenty of time to carry off the purse, if that was their wish.”

“You imply that it was not?”

“I do not wish to imply anything, Master Drew. I am here at the request of my acquaintance, who wishes some investigation and assurance about how his young cousin met his death.”

“Surely, this is a matter for the City of London coroner?” Master Drew knew that scarcely a day went by when some poor soul was not attacked and robbed and even killed on the streets of London. Only if a person was of some status and wealth was an investigation held, and that usually by the coroner.

“This must be an inquiry of a strictly confidential nature, Master Drew. Five guineas will be yours for the use of your discretion.”

Master Drew stared in surprise.

“I would need some enlightenment on this matter. Who was the victim?”

“The young man was cousin to Sir Christopher Hatton, who owns the house in Holborn to which we are going. We are going to Hatton Gardens.”

Master Drew frowned as he searched his memory.

“Hatton?”

“You are acquainted with the name?”

“It has a passing familiarity. Ah, I have it but... but Sir Christopher Hatton died eleven years ago.”

Sir Edward shook his head.

“This is Sir Christopher’s heir, a great nephew of the Sir Christopher of whom you speak.”

“I see. The Sir Christopher that I recall had been Captain of the Queen’s Guard, a privy councillor, and, I recall, Lord Chancellor. He was given the palace of the Bishops of Ely by the queen and was buried in St Paul’s. There was a rumour...” Master Drew paused and his lips compressed.

Sir Edward smiled in amusement.

“We are alone, Master Drew. Anyway I know the rumour.”

“The queen was frequently a visitor at Ely Palace and was very solicitous when Sir Christopher was dying. It was said that when he died he was indebted to her by some forty thousand pounds.”

“You speak of the facts, not the rumour. They are true. Since you are reticent about the rumour, I will tell it. The rumour was that Sir Christopher was the queen’s favourite.”

“Such was the rumour,” affirmed Master Drew gravely.

“Let us discard the rumour, then. It is of no consequence. It is known that Ely Place is now called Hatton Gardens, after Sir Christopher. When he died, which, as you rightly say, was about eleven years ago, his heir was a nephew, William Newport, who then adopted the name Hatton. He died six years ago and his cousin, the current Sir Christopher, inherited. Sir Christopher is of my acquaintance. In fact,” he grew slightly embarrassed, “when Sir William died, I married his widow.”

Master Drew made no comment. The behaviour of the wife of Sir Edward, the former Lady Elizabeth Hatton, was one of the scandals of London. When they married, she had refused to take his name, preferring to keep to the title Lady Hatton. They had often been witnessed arguing in public places, and it was rumoured that the elderly queen had forbidden her entry to any palace in which she resided. It was known that the vivacious Lady Hatton was twenty-six years junior to Sir Edward and an unrepentant flirt, if not worse. They had, apparently, gone their separate ways over a year ago in spite of having a child in common.

Master Drew cleared his throat and brought his mind back to the present matter.

“So who was this cousin who was killed?”

“His name was Henry Hatton.”

“His age?”

“Nine and twenty.”

“You say he had only just come to London?”

“He had been living on an estate owned by the Hattons in Waterford in Ireland. Ah, we are here.”

The coach had halted and one of the footmen alighted and hurriedly opened the door. As Master Drew followed Sir Edward to the steps of the considerable town house outside which they had drawn up, the door opened and a distinguished-looking man came hurrying forward. Anxiety marked his features. His glance encompassed Master Drew and the constable was aware of a deep intensity of observation in that brief look.

“Sir Christopher, this is Master Drew, of whom I have spoken,” said Sir Edward.

Master Drew started to bow, but Sir Christopher quickly waved a hand that seemed an invitation to dispense with such etiquette.

“You will want to see the body?” he asked immediately.

“I will also want to speak with anyone who saw the attack or was at the scene soon after.”

“My man, Joseph, will show you to the body,” muttered Sir Christopher. “You will join Sir Edward and myself in the drawing room,” he indicated a door in the hall of the house, “when you have finished.”

A stony-faced footman dressed in Hatton livery moved forward.

“If you will follow me, sir?”

He led the way up the wide, winding stairway to an upper floor and into a bedroom.

“Was this the guest room where Master Hatton was staying?” Master Drew asked, as the room clearly showed marks of occupancy.

“It was, Master Constable,” replied the footman. “When Master Hatton arrived, Sir Christopher assigned him this room, it being one of our guest rooms.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Two days ago.”

The body was laid out on the oak fourposter bed. It was a man of thirty or perhaps a little older. There were bloodstains on his satin doublet and white linen shirt, both of which garments had been loosened, obviously in some attempt to staunch the wound as the man lay dying. Apart from the doublet and shirt, no other items of his clothing had been touched. Even his stockings and fashionable shoes were still on his muscular legs.

He was a handsome man. His skin was fair, almost white, and his hair, drawn back from a broad forehead, could be called red but standing more towards a pale ginger. The features seemed disconcertingly familiar to Master Drew. Certainly, the man was richly attired. His hands were well manicured and there appeared no indication that he had ever lifted anything heavier than a rapier in his life.

Master Drew frowned suddenly and turned to the liveried servant who stood impassively at the door.

“Joseph, was this gentleman wearing a sword?”

“Not when he was brought in from the street, Master Constable.”

“You mean he was wearing one when he went out this afternoon?”

“I recollect that he was, sir. It don’t do for a young gen’lemen to be abroad in London without a good rapier to ward off the footpads and the like. Though much good it did the poor gen’leman. Maybe the thieves stole it.”

Master Drew returned to his examination. His eyes, returning to the well-manicured hands, noticed a white circle of skin on the man’s signet finger, which indicated the habitual wearing of a ring.

“Where is the signet ring he used to wear?”

The footman looked bewildered. He leaned forward as if he had only just noticed that it was not there.

“I do recall that he wore a ring, a large one, if it please you. But in the turmoil of the events...” He shrugged. “It seems that the thieves made off with that also.”

“They stopped and removed a signet ring when it would be easier to cut the purse...” Master Drew muttered reflectively as he glanced to where the dead man’s purse still hung at his waist. He reached forward and felt it. It was heavy and clinked with its metal contents. Master Drew removed it, untying its fastening, and emptied it into the contents of his hand. “A silly young man to carry so much. A good three years’ wages to a wherryman on the river. Throats have been cut for less.”

“Yet the purse remain, sir,” pointed out the servant, stoically.

“Aye, indeed, good Joseph. The purse and its contents remain.”

Replacing it, he bent over the body again, peering at it carefully, and then finally came to the wounds.

“Someone has attempted to clean the wounds since death.”

“On Sir Christopher’s orders, sir. Mary and Poll from the kitchen did their best to clean away the blood.”

Master Drew was thoughtful. There was, in fact, only one clean wound. One small incision which would lead the blade directly into the heart. Master Drew had seen such wounds before and they were usually made by a swift thrust of a rapier — a gentleman’s weapon — and not the weapon favoured by cutthroats, footpads, and brigands of the London back streets.

“Did this young man have his own servant?”

“He did, sir,” replied Joseph with a tone of disapproval. “He brought with him from Ireland an outlandish sort of fellow who speaks a gentleman’s English, though accented and interspersed with his gibberish Irish tongue. In fact, he was the one who spotted the footpads that attacked Master Hatton, causing them to run off, before he brought his body into the house.”

Master Drew was surprised at this new intelligence.

“What is the man’s name?”

“He tells us that he is called Broder Power, from some town called Waterford.”

“Ask him to join me here.”

The footman looked as though he would raise an objection and then, meeting Master Drew’s steely gaze, inclined his head for a moment and went off to fulfil his task.

Master Drew took the opportunity of the servant’s absence to make a quick search of the bedroom. There was a small walnut writing bureau. Obviously Master Hatton had neither inclination nor time for letter writing for the interior showed no sign of recent usage.

There were clothes in the closet that spoke of good taste and quality. Henry Hatton certainly did not want for money to buy the best that master tailors could offer. He ruffled through the silks and satins. One cloak caused him to pause; it was a dark blue satin cloak that had a collar edged with pure white fur and black flecks and even the edging was of the same. Master Drew frowned. He recognised the fur as taken from one of the weasel family, prized for its tail of pure white fur and black tip. He grimaced and then closed the closet door.

An intricately worked walnut dresser contained articles of a toilet nature, with bottles of scents and fragrances that again spoke of good taste. Some drawers were filled with stockings and undergarments, all of good quality. He was about to turn away when he saw some something bright under some of the silk clothing. It was a small silver locket on a chain of similar metal. He took it out — inscribed on the silver was a shield and a motto. The shield displayed two bulls’ heads divided by a chevron from a third bull’s head. Master Drew knew the motto as French, as he had a little knowledge of the language. “Le plus heureux” — The most happy. He opened the locket. There was room for two miniature portraits inside. The one on the left-hand side had been removed, but clumsily so, leaving tiny splinters of the wood base on which it had been painted. The second portrait, on the right side, was still there. It was the features of the young man who currently lay dead on the bed before him.

Taking the locket in one hand, Master Drew went to the bedside and peered down. There was no doubt of it. This was a miniature of the young man who had met his end by a single thrust of a blade. The constable shook his head, closed the locket, pausing briefly to look at the arms again, and then, hearing a step outside the door, he placed it down on the side table.

There was a tap on the door and he bade the person who knocked enter.

Joseph, the footman, came in, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early twenties, with dark hair, fair skin, and the build and manner of a soldier rather than a servant.

“This is Broder Power, Master Drew,” said the liveried footman, indicating his distaste with a grimace.

“Then you may wait outside, Joseph,” Master Drew replied.

The footman hesitated and then shrugged and removed himself.

The young man who entered glanced at the body on the bed and his hand moved to touch his forehead. Then he realised Master Drew was watching and caught himself.

“I am not interested in your religion, Master Power,” the constable said immediately, realising that the man was about to make the sign of the Cross. “Though, out of curiosity, was your late master a Papist?”

“He was not, a dhuine usal... I mean, Your Honour. But no finer heretical gentleman have I served.”

Master Drew smiled.

“Then I would choose my words more carefully while you are in England at this time.”

Broder Power nodded quickly.

“It is hard to be indifferent in the presence of the dead, Your Honour.”

“I have a few questions for you. How long have you served Master Hatton?”

“Just over one year.”

“And you are from Ireland?”

“Master Hatton had an estate outside the city of Waterford, where I come from. I served in my lord the Earl of Clancarthy’s troops and after Lord Montjoy defeated us at Kinsale...” He shrugged. “Well, I was taken prisoner, but Master Hatton gave me my freedom if I served him faithfully.”

“Then you are a soldier, not a house servant?”

“A Dhia na bhfeart, a dhuine usail, it is so. Master Hatton hired me to guard his person but I have failed in that.”

“Why did he need a bodyguard?”

“He said he had enemies in high places and wanted to be sure that he had protection against an assassin’s knife.”

“Why were you not with him this evening?”

“He ordered it so.”

“Why did he come to London?”

“He told me that he had to fulfill that to which he was born.”

“When did he tell you this?”

“Two weeks ago. A messenger came to him in Waterford. I know not what news he brought. But Master Hatton said that we must sail to England forthwith and it took us time to get ship and sail to London. We arrived scarcely two days ago.”

Master Drew changed subject abruptly. “He used to wear a signet ring, I am told.”

“He did, a dhuine usail. I saw it many times.”

“Yet he is not wearing it now.”

Power took a step towards the bed and stared.

“By the powers, he is not.”

“Do you know what happened to it?”

“He was wearing it when he left here this afternoon.”

“And his sword?”

“I think the footpads fled with that. Also, he used to wear a Venetian stiletto on his left side. As I recall, he was not wearing that when I found the body.”

“Before we come to that, cast your memory back. What was on that signet ring? Can you recall its emblem?”

“Oh, that I can, a dhuine usail. I used to laugh at it, for Master Hatton was a young man of action and I would have thought he would have had some emblem depicting that. A fighting animal or bird — an eagle, a raven, a lion, or even a bull. No, the emblem he wore was that of a pelican.”

Master Drew let out a soft breath.

“A pelican, say you?”

“A white pearl pelican set against a ruby stone.”

“And his sword? Was there anything that distinguished it?”

“It was of fine workmanship. There were roses worked around the handle-guard and some Latin inscription on the blade. I can’t recall exactly what it was.”

“Tell me of the events of today. How was it that Master Hatton, being so afeared of assassination, told you to remain here and went abroad alone?”

Broder Power rubbed his jaw with his hand.

“Just as I say, a dhuine usail. He told me to remain. I think a messenger came to the house with a note. On the intelligence he received from this note, he told me that he was going to the Chancery buildings not far away and there was no reason for me to accompany him. I protested but a little. But he girth on his sword and dagger, laughed, and departed. I was unhappy. Master Hatton was a good man, albeit an Englishman, and I vowed to serve him well. I followed at a distance. Indeed, he went directly to the Chancery buildings. I believe them to be your courts of law?”

Master Drew nodded.

“In a small garden, among those buildings, I saw him encounter a young lady.”

“Can you describe her?”

“That I can and well, a dhuine usail... I mean, Your Honour, for she had called at this very house the day we had arrived. I heard Sir Christopher greet her distantly and call her Lady Hatton.”

Master Drew stared for a moment at the man.

“Lady Hatton?” he echoed thoughtfully. “And you felt there was some animosity in the greeting from Sir Christopher?”

“’Twas like watching two skilled fencing artists exchange an opening clash of their blades. I heard her say she wished to be introduced to her new cousin, by which I think she meant my master. But Sir Christopher told her he was not within the house. God save him, but that was a lie, for he was within his room.”

“And this was the same lady that met with your master in the Chancery gardens?”

“It was, er... Your Honour. And that is the truth of it. I observed them for a while. They appeared in long discussion. But I misdoubt that it was a comfortable exchange of kinsfolk. There seemed some anger in the air. My master stood up and took his leave. Thinking that I could quickly catch him, I lingered to watch the lady, who walked to a shaded arch. I noticed there was a coach there, a coach and two horses. A man leant out and she spoke awhile to him and once pointed in the direction my master had taken.”

“Did you observe this man? What was he like and were there any distinguishing marks on the coach?”

“There was a shield on the coach. I think it was blue and white horizontal bars on it and some animals but, in truth, I would not be able to tell one of your English heraldic signs from another. I know the man in the coach had a tawny beard, reddish hair, and as he leant from the coach window it seem to me the gentleman was crooked of back, though it might have been the angle from which I was observing the encounter. The coach moved off and I quickly followed my master. Dia linn! I lost sight of him until he reached the very street wherein we were dwelling with Sir Christopher. Dusk was falling but I saw several things at once that demanded my attention.

“I saw the same coach disappearing down the street. I saw my master on the ground and two men were bending over him. One held my master’s sword, which he had obviously wrenched from him, for it was still in its scabbard. The other was...” Master Power paused and exclaimed — “A Dhia! One was tearing at his hand. He must have been taking the signet ring. I yelled, stupidly so, for I was some distance away and unable to close with the thieves. They looked up, saw me, and took to their heels. I thought it more important to get my poor master to the house and call for help rather than chase them.”

Master Drew spoke sharply.

“Can you describe them?”

“They had dark cloaks about them and hats that shaded their faces. One thing I observed — that they wore good boots.”

Master Drew raised an eyebrow.

“Good boots? Why would you observe that?”

“It occurred to me only later. I have seen some of the poor in the city. Many, like in my own sad country, go barefoot or cannot afford good quality leather to wear and resort to wooden shoes or the like. These had good boots.”

“So you brought Master Hatton inside. And then?”

“He was pronounced dead. It needed no physician to confirm it. Sir Christopher was in a great state of anguish, naturally so, it being his cousin. We placed him here. The other gentleman, Sir Edward, was with Sir Christopher at the time and there was some discussion. Then Sir Edward left and on his return he brought you here, a dhuine usail. These are the facts as I know them.”

Master Drew sighed and was troubled.

“Tell me, Master Power, do you have your means of support?”

Broder Power looked at him curiously.

“I have my health, a good blade, and a fair sword arm, a purse with scarce a guinea in it. I relied on the patronage and employment of my master.”

“Accept my advice, Master Broder Power, and return to your own country and do so immediately. Better still, go join your countrymen in France and Spain, for now Montjoy has defeated O’Neill, I do fear that things will not go well for your people in Ireland. Slip away from this house this minute while it is still dark and vanish as quickly as you can. It is better that you do not know the reasons why, but I urge you to do so if you value your life and liberty.”

Broder Power stared at Master Drew curiously and then he glanced to the corpse on the bed.

“Then my master was an important person? This was the assassination he feared?”

“You are an intelligent man, Master Power,” replied the constable. “At this time, in this place, an intelligent man knows when not to seek answers to such questions.”

“I will do as you say, a dhuine usail... Your Honour.”

Master Drew left Broder Power and was conducted by the stony-faced Joseph down the stairs to the drawing room, where Sir Edward and Sir Christopher were waiting impatiently.

“You have been awhile, Constable,” greeted Sir Christopher in surly manner. “The hour grows late.”

“The constable has a reputation for thoroughness,” intervened Sir Edward in a conciliatory tone. “Is it not so? Have you come to some conclusions, Master Drew?”

Master Drew smiled thinly.

“Will you assuage my curiosity, Sir Edward?”

“Of course, of course. Sir Christopher, a glass of malmsey for the good constable.”

Master Drew declined the wine and said: “I do not seek to cause offence, but I was wondering about Lady Hatton, Sir Edward. I mean Lady Elizabeth Hatton, your wife.”

Sir Edward’s brow creased in a frown of annoyance

“My wife and I have led separate lives this past year or so.”

“I was merely curious, forgive me, but what was her family?”

“She was a Cecil, Master Drew. The daughter of Thomas Cecil, Lord Burghley. Why do you inquire?”

Master Drew sighed deeply, as if he had suspected the answer.

“Forgive me, as I say, it was but a passing curiosity on my part.”

“And so to your observations,” snapped Sir Christopher. “My cousin’s death must be officially pronounced before we can begin the burial procedures...”

Master Drew turned to him.

“I believe...” he began.

There was a thunderous knocking at the door that startled them all. They could hear servants scurrying to the door, voices raised, and then Joseph opened the doors, but before he could speak a small man came pushing into the room. Behind him were two men wearing the livery of the queen’s guards. Their weapons were not drawn, but they were well armed.

Sir Edward was the first to recover from his surprise.

“Sir Robert! What brings you abroad at this late hour?”

Sir Robert was a slight man, dwarfish in stature, with a humpback, reddish hair, a tawny beard, and large green eyes that had a hard quality to them. They swept the gathering with a coldness that did not match the grim smile on the man’s thin lips. Master Drew bowed stiffly, for it did not achieve anything to antagonise Sir Robert Cecil, Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State to Her Majesty.

“Business of state brings me abroad at this hour, as you should know well, Sir Edward.” He made no reference or apology for the armed guards at the door.

“How can I serve you, Sir Robert?” Sir Christopher came forward nervously.

“I have lately come from Richmond Palace. Her Majesty is dying and will not, according to her physicians, last out the week. She has, as Sir Edward will know, consistently refused to name or approve a successor. These are perilous times, gentlemen. Claims and counterclaims to the throne will plunge this kingdom into the bloodiest civil war since the queen’s grandfather overthrew Richard of York at Bosworth. Pretenders and claimants gather like conspirators. It is my task to protect the kingdom and, on intelligence from the physicians, I have now sent a draft constitutional agreement to the queen’s cousin, the King of Scots, in that if His Majesty so desires he may proceed here to London, on Her Majesty’s demise, and be accorded the Crown of England as well as Scotland.”

The announcement did not seem to surprise Sir Edward. He merely inclined his head almost as if in surrender.

“It was good of you to seek me out and tell me so, Sir Robert. I will repair to Richmond forthwith as my duty lies with being at my sovereign’s bedside at the hour of her death.”

Sir Robert made a curious motion of his hand.

“Yet I hear, Sir Christopher, you have also had a death here at your house?” He glanced to Master Drew. “I also understand that you have sent for an official to make inquiries into the manner and perpetrators of this death.”

Master Drew swallowed slightly. He knew that Sir Robert ran a web of spies and informers and, indeed, assassins which protected the realm from any perceived threat by the queen’s enemies.

“Master Drew has not yet had time...” began Sir Christopher.

“On the contrary,” Master Drew said decisively, “I was just about to deliver my summation.”

Sir Christopher seemed to exchange a frightened glance with Sir Edward and both men were tight-lipped and anxious.

“It is a sad matter, but not an uncommon one,” went on Master Drew. “I understand that Sir Christopher’s young cousin, Master Henry Hatton, was but lately arrived from Ireland. New to London and London ways, he went abroad this afternoon and returning was attacked by two footpads who stabbed him through the heart. While they were proceeding to rob him, taking his ring and sword, they were disturbed by his servant, who rushed upon the scene. They fled, and the servant carried his master’s body here, whereupon he was found to be dead. I am afraid the matter was a simple one. We may never find the perpetrators.”

Sir Robert raised his eyebrows and, for the first time, there was amusement on his features.

“Simple? Very well. Perhaps we should seek confirmation from the mouth of this unfortunate young man’s servant? He being the only witness.”

Joseph, who had been standing silently at the door, coughed and spoke apologetically to Sir Christopher.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but at the time of the arrival of Sir Robert I was coming to inform you that Master Hatton’s servant has fled. He was left in Master Hatton’s bedroom. I suppose, seeing no means of further employment, the rogue did take the purse that was on his master’s body still and, indeed, searched a few drawers, for their contents were spilt. I do not know what other valuables he has made off with. But the window was open and it is an easy passage to the ground from there. I fear he has vanished into the streets of London.”

Sir Robert was smiling grimly.

“Then it seems we will have to leave his apprehension in the hands of the thief-takers. I suppose he will be as hard to find as the footpads that killed your young cousin. So, Master Drew, you have no hesitation with your findings? May I send a magistrate tomorrow to take down your statement for the record? We would not want any false rumours to spread abroad as to the circumstances.”

“I will expect the magistrate to call on me morrow, Sir Robert. I am content in my resolve,” agreed the constable.

“And you, Sir Christopher, art content? It is but poor hospitality your cousin received here in London. And you, Sir Edward? Are you both content?”

Sir Edward nodded, while Sir Christopher said shortly: “I wish nothing more than to accord Henry a speedy burial. He was almost a stranger to us and there will be none in our family who will long mourn him. Alas, he came to London at the wrong time.”

Sir Robert grimaced.

“A sad time, a sad time for all of us. A shadow hangs over the realm, gentlemen. Our good lady has served us well and deserves rest from her worldly chores. Soon she will fear no more the burden of government of this realm. She may go peacefully to her rest. Before the week is out, we who remain shall see if a brave new era of prosperity will begin or whether we shall sink back into the dark days of civil war and blood feuds. I hope, for the sake of all of us, gentleman, that we may come through this night of mourning.”

Later that night, Master Hardy Drew sat gazing thoughtfully into his own fire. He had been extravagant enough to build up the fire and heat some mulled wine, even cutting himself a slice of cold mutton pie. His extravagance was compensated by the thought of the ten gold crowns that Sir Christopher had given him, which now lay locked away in the small wooden box he kept under his bed. It had been an exhausting evening and one which still sent chills through his body. He hoped that Broder Power would make it safely to France or Spain. He would be glad when Sir Robert’s magistrate had officially taken down his version of the story.

He was not sure how Sir Christopher had planned to present the young man called “Henry Hatton” as heir and claimant to Elizabeth’s throne on her death. Well, that plot was ended and he was lucky to have extricated himself from involvement in it.

Who exactly was “Henry Hatton”? His features proclaimed him to be a Tudor. His resemblance to the portraits of Elizabeth was obvious. The locket bore the coat of arms and motto of Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth’s mother. Elizabeth was known to have still revered her executed mother and despised her father for the state murder. Who would Elizabeth love so much to present that locket to? And the signet ring, so described by Master Power. The pelican on a ruby background. The pelican was one of Elizabeth’s favourite symbols, used to portray her motherly love for England. The legend had it that in times of food shortages, pelicans plucked flesh from their own bodies to feed their dying young. And then there was the ermine-edged cloak — a status symbol which only high nobility and royalty were allowed to wear. The missing sword, with roses on the hilt — Tudor roses?

“Henry Hatton” had been no ordinary person. It was obvious to Master Drew that Hatton had been a Tudor, sent into exile by Elizabeth for safety. Was he Elizabeth’s own son? Sir Christopher Hatton, dead these eleven years, had been known to be her favourite. Was Henry a child by him? Or was Henry a child by someone else, given to Sir Christopher to take care of until such time as he could come forward and be recognised? Did Lady Elizabeth Cecil, during the time that she had been married into the Hatton family, come to learn this dark secret? Certainly, she was instrumental in Henry Hatton’s death. Hearing of his return to London as the queen lay dying, Lady Hatton had arranged a meeting with the young man to identify him. Having done so, she had reported to her uncle, Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster and chief assassin, who favoured the King of Scots as heir to the English throne. Master Drew had no doubt that Sir Robert had given the orders for his men to kill the young man and remove any evidence that would link him to the Tudors.

Master Drew shivered at how close he had come to being arrested by the Lord Chancellor — or worse.

He was still unsure whether Sir Edward and Sir Christopher had brought him into their conspiracy to investigate as a witness against the Cecils or to give an official pronouncement in support of the footpad theory that would allow them their freedom, proclaiming them innocent of the knowledge of the identity of the young man and therefore the reason for his assassination. Had they expected Master Drew not to realise the truth or to disguise it?

At times, Master Drew reflected, as he stretched before the fire, it was far better to pretend ignorance than boast his talent for gathering and interpreting the facts.

It was in the early hours of Thursday morning, four days later, that it was announced that Elizabeth of England had passed peacefully to death in her chambers at Richmond Palace. She would, as Sir Robert said, fear no more the heat of the sun, for she had fulfilled her worldly task and gone to receive her heavenly wages. The nation was in mourning. Already, a cortege had left Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh and was heading south into England bearing the thirty-seven-year-old James Charles Stuart, King of Scotland, Duke of Rothesay, Duke of Albany, Earl of Ross, and Baron Ardmannoch, who had now been proclaimed Elizabeth’s successor.

Copyright © 2010 Peter Tremayne