Prophecy - Страница 66

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‘But how would I ever find out about such a title?’

She looks at me as if I am being wilfully stupid.

‘The College of Arms hold all the records. At Derby Place, off St Peter Street. I am sure they would know something.’

‘Where is Ormond?’

‘How should I know, Bruno? I am not a cartographer.’

‘Did you tell Lord Burghley about this?’ I ask, curious.

She sucks in her cheeks again.

‘There is no love lost between Lord Burghley and myself. I never had the sense from him that he cared very much about the maids. Their deaths are a political problem to him, and he will find a political solution, you may be sure. Meanwhile my girls are terrified, Bruno, that this killer has his eye on more of them. My queen is afraid too, though you would never hear her admit it. These murders were grotesque threats against her. And it is poisoning the atmosphere at court — we look at every man now wondering, Is it him? Is it that one? He must be found and put where he cannot harm any more of us.’ She wraps her shawl closer around her shoulders as another gust scuffs up the leaves in the yard. ‘I was not willing to be dismissed yet again as a foolish woman by Lord Burghley. But you had a look about you, with your sharp questions and your sharp eyes. When I saw you with the French ambassador at court I realised at once that you must be one of Francis Walsingham’s recruits. You need not answer that. I am as discreet as the grave.’

I neither acknowledge this nor deny it.

‘I can assure you, my lady, I am doing everything I can to assist with catching this man, and I am grateful to you for your trouble. But I think you are wrong about my lord Burghley. He lost a daughter himself, of about the same age. I think he cares far more than you would credit.’

She ponders this as I nod curtly and move towards the gate.

‘Bruno?’

I turn back, expectant.

‘Don’t forget your manners. My title is quite real, I promise you.’ But there is a mischievous twitch at the corner of her mouth. I make a low bow, apologising, and when I look up, she is already on her way back into the house.

At a run through Bucklersbury, where the density of apothecaries’ shops fills the air with a curious mix of savoury herbs from their remedies, I don’t stop now to glance over my shoulder; if my pursuer is still behind me, let him show himself, for I feel there must be something significant in this information of Lady Seaton’s, I feel I have this elusive killer’s identity almost within my reach. He seduced Cecily Ashe with a handsome face and a title he had borrowed, or invented, or perhaps it is his own genuine title though not one he uses, but if the earldom of Ormond exists, or has ever existed, I will find out who among the remaining suspects might have any connection with it. Already my mind is leaping ahead of the facts and settling on Throckmorton. Though I encountered him only twice at Salisbury Court, I recall him as a personable young man, no great beauty like Courcelles, but good-looking enough to deserve the description. He is English, of good family — might he not have persuaded Cecily that he had a title?

My thoughts are flying faster than my feet; along Great St Thomas Apostle and then cut down Garlick Hill to Thames Street and due west to St Peters. I thank my good fortune as I run that I spent much of the summer wandering the streets of the city, exploring its neighbourhoods, the haunts of its guildsmen and merchants, its wealthiest quarters and its slums. I wanted to know its streets, to piece it together in my head; since I meant to make it my home, I felt I should take the trouble to get to know it. Now, though I will never know it as intimately as those born with the stench of the Thames in their nostrils, I have at least committed to memory a good many of the main thoroughfares, so that I do not always have to stop and ask strangers for directions. London is not a friendly city to foreigners; better never to admit that you are lost.

In St Peter Street I do stop a smartly dressed man to ask if he knows where the College of Arms is to be found; he points me down the road to a large three-storeyed house on the north side. On the west range of the building I find a gatehouse with its portcullis raised; inside the quadrangle a man in a tabard bearing the royal arms steps in front of the main door and asks me my business. I pause, bent over, and rest my hands on my thighs, trying to recover my breath; he watches me with some concern.

‘I need to find some information on a particular title,’ I say, between gasps, when I am able to speak. His eyes narrow.

‘For what purpose?’

‘To see if it exists.’

‘On whose behalf?’

I hesitate. Whose authority would serve me best here? I cannot risk associating myself with Walsingham, and if I claim Burghley he will ask to see some letter or seal of proof — not unreasonably, since my appearance is less than professional.

‘I am personal secretary to the ambassador of France, the Seigneur de Mauvissiere,’ I say, drawing myself upright and pushing my hair out of my face. I lean in and drop my voice. ‘It is a delicate matter.’

A flicker of mild interest passes over his face; he nods and opens the door for me. I find myself standing in a paved entrance hall hung with silk banners in sumptuous colours, a menagerie of lions, eagles, unicorns, gryphons and cockatrices gently undulating in the draught from the open door.

‘You will need to speak to one of the officers of arms,’ the doorman informs me. We both look around; the hall is empty. ‘Hold on.’ He crosses to a door at the far end, his heels clicking on the flagstones, puts his head around and calls to someone inside. A few minutes pass in silence. I smile awkwardly at my guide; he nods encouragingly towards the door. Eventually a stout man appears dressed in the same tabard, his chins bulging over his ruff. He also regards me with suspicion.

‘This gentleman,’ says the doorman, and I do not miss the edge of sarcasm in the description, ‘needs to look up a title. Says he’s from the French ambassador on a personal matter.’

‘Do you have a letter of authority?’ says the man with the chins, who I presume to be the officer of arms.

‘I’m afraid not.’ I pat my doublet, as if for proof.

He presses his lips together and folds his hands. For a moment I think he is going to refuse.

‘I have money,’ I blurt.

The officer gives a wan smile. ‘Oh, you won’t get far without that. What is the nature of your enquiry?’

I glance between them.

‘My lord ambassador’s niece has received a proposal of marriage from an English gentleman who claims to be the heir to a particular earldom,’ I whisper, as if to draw them into the intrigue. ‘But my master does not know of this title and wants to verify the young man’s credentials.’

The two men exchange a knowing smile.

‘That old trick,’ says the older, suggesting he deals with such matters on a daily basis. He holds out a plump hand. ‘The College must generate income to preserve our archive, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ I say, patting the breast of my doublet, where I wear my purse slung under my arm beneath my cloak. The money I had meant for my new boots would have to be sacrificed to a nobler cause. ‘What is the price?’

‘Depends upon how long it takes me to find the record,’ he says, and by way of demonstration he pushes open the door from which he entered to reveal a high room lined floor to ceiling with wooden shelves, each one piled with bound manuscripts and rolls of paper. ‘Records of grants of arms and pedigrees going back a hundred years, since the College was incorporated by King Richard III,’ he says proudly, indicating the collection as if it is his own work. ‘Which is this spurious title, then?’

‘The Earl of Ormond,’ I say. Already it has taken on a sinister sound in my mouth.

‘Oh, then I cannot help you,’ he says, looking crestfallen. ‘You had better save your money.’

‘Why not? It is not a real title?’

‘It is not an English title,’ he says, with careful emphasis. ‘I believe it is Scottish, and we do not keep the records for the Scottish nobility. For that you will need to travel to Edinburgh.’

A dozen expressions must have chased one another across my face in an instant, because he seems to take pity on me.

‘There is someone who might be able to help you, though. Wait here.’ And he strides importantly away through another door. His footsteps fade and I am suddenly so overcome by tiredness that I have to sit down on the foot of the marble staircase that leads up from the entrance hall.

‘To be honest,’ says the doorman, who remains propped against the wall, apparently too interested in my quest to return to his post, ‘most times, the ones that claim to be earls probably aren’t. I mean, your actual earls don’t need to make a song and dance about it.’

I raise my head from between my hands. ‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’

After an interval I hear the officer’s footsteps returning; behind him shuffles a white-haired man dressed in the same livery, who carries himself with an upright, military bearing despite his slow progress.

‘This is Walter, our longest-serving officer at arms,’ announces the man with the chins. ‘He has the best part of our records committed to memory, you know. If — God forbid — we should ever suffer the ravages of a fire, we should be turning to Walter to recreate our archive from here.’ He taps his temple. ‘But he is Scottish by birth and he knows a great deal of the Scots titles too.’