A/N: My apologies, Blurgle, I completely forgot to thank you for your review! By way of recompense, here's another chapter...
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Start at the Bottom and Work Up
As dawn breaks, a lone candle burns almost to the end. Its light is faint, but the lone occupant of the room seems not to notice the dimness. He ceased to pay attention at some point in the night that he can no longer recall.
His eyes fixed on some point in the distance, Cromwell tries to assimilate all that has happened over the last two days. He has no idea now if he shall be obliged to continue alone, or whether Rich shall be in a condition fit to assist him. He has brooded over the post mortem report from Doctor Butts since his colleague departed last night, and is still no more able to understand than he was yesterday where to progress the investigation in the light of their appalling discovery.
Fitzroy. Henry Fitzroy. Henry Son-of-the-King. It all seems impossible - and yet, it cannot be anyone else, for there is not a single soul of such standing other than he that was present on each occasion that a victim died. The King shall never believe it - they shall need proof - absolute proof. Proof that they cannot hope to find.
He looks up as the door opens. Rich is in the doorway: his clothes crumpled, his hair askew. Cromwell does not need more light than he has to see the red, swollen aftermath of tears; but he understands. He knows what it is to lose a part of one's soul.
Moving slowly, tiredly, Rich joins Cromwell at the table. It is obvious that he has not slept any more than Cromwell has, and his brooding has been far more of a torment.
"When did she die?" he asks, his voice hoarse.
"Doctor Butts could not offer a definitive time, Richard," Cromwell says, quietly, "but he thinks it likely that she died the night before you discovered her."
"Then I am to blame." Rich says.
Cromwell stares at him, bemused at such a statement, "How? How could you be to blame for this?"
"I thought to visit her that evening, for I had not seen her in some days," his voice is low; dull, "but I chose not to, as she had been occupied with the Countess, and I thought she might be tired. I should have…I should have called upon her and…I did not. He did, instead."
"In what way are you expected to be able to divine the future, Richard?" Cromwell asks, "How were you to know of our murderer's designs that night? You acted out of courtesy to Miss Silverton's welfare - it is not thanks to you that another planned differently. There is but one man to blame for this crime. That man is not you."
"Nonetheless, I could have saved her - but I did not."
"Perhaps, if you must see it that way, though I do not." Cromwell advises him, firmly, "If she could not be saved, then we must grasp the gift she has given us, and ensure that there are no more deaths after hers. If we do nothing else, then that is what we must do."
"For Kat." Rich murmurs, his eyes glistening again in the faint light.
"For Kat." Cromwell agrees. Taking the nub of the candle, he re-lights the others, for there is still insufficient light to see, "If you do not feel that you can continue with me in this, Richard, then I am willing to release you from the obligation."
Rich shakes his head, "No. I have to do this. I cannot stop now - for if I did, then I should truly have betrayed her. I could not save her, but I shall not rest until I have obtained justice for her."
Cromwell is relieved he did not use the word vengeance.
Reaching for a paper packet, he extracts the fragment of velvet. To his uneducated eye, the once-fine nap is ruined, but the gold thread is still shining amidst the flattened fibres. It is all they have - and that is, to be frank, extremely tenuous. None but one of the highest rank would wear a garment made from this cloth; indeed, did he not see Fitzroy in a blue doublet that could be the twin of one from which this could have come? Even so - it is still not enough: the bastard prince could claim it to have been upon the back of a member of his retinue, wearing it as a disguise. What if it is?
"We must act to identify the cloth." He says, turning the offending item over in his hands, "The laundresses shall be about at this hour, so I think our first step is to question them."
Rich does not speak, but instead gathers paper and quill, pours a small quantity of ink from the bottle into the inkhorn and reaches for the board he has been using to support the papers as he writes. For a moment, Cromwell watches him, then reaches out and rests a hand upon his shoulder, "I cannot begin to know how hard this is for you, Richard." He says, quietly.
"I have work to do." Rich says, "I shall do it. I can mourn later: when that bastard is captured and justice is done."
Cromwell sighs inwardly. It is not wise for Rich to pin all his hopes upon a successful outcome - for there is no telling where the road might lead them now. But then, perhaps it no longer matters to him. If the King condemns them, then he shall be reunited with Kat in death.
As he turns to lead Rich from their investigation room, his eyes narrow, viciously; if the King condemns them, and they must die, then he shall be damned if he does not take Fitzroy with them.
The air in the laundry is as humid as the last time he was here; though the heat is less in the early morning. As with all servants, the Laundresses are about their work even in the small hours - for the demands of the Palace for clean linens and garments is insatiable.
This time, however, the Laundry is guarded by a fierce dragon of a woman - a Mistress Hall - who eyes them with astonishing hostility. The Laundry is, to her, a woman's domain, and she does not like the disruptive presence of men. Unlike those of higher station, she is not remotely intimidated by either Cromwell's reputation or his chain of office; a situation that, paradoxically, he finds somewhat refreshing.
"I believe Mistress Straker has already told you, my Lord," she says, her voice as wizened as her elderly face, "we have seen no blood on cloths other than those used by the ladies of the court during their courses. Those who engage in violent activities are wise enough to seek their cleaning services elsewhere."
"That is not why am here, Mistress Hall," Cromwell says, placatingly, "I have come into possession of a fragment of cloth, and I wish to seek the advice of the laundresses as to whether they have come across the garment from which it came."
"They are busy. Give the cloth to me."
"That I cannot do, Madam." He says, more stiffly, "The cloth is of vital importance to an investigation with which I am currently engaged."
"I am not interested in the sordid activities of those who claim to be of better blood. Give me the cloth."
"No."
Until that moment, Rich had been paying very little attention to the conversation, wrapped up in his sorrow; but the bluntness of Cromwell's response pulls him from his reverie, and he stares, astonished, as the fierce guardian of the Laundry and the Lord Privy Seal begin to argue in the most extraordinarily ill mannered terms. Their language is coarse, and their words almost strange at times, for Cromwell has abandoned his Courtly veneer, and is now squabbling with the woman in the argot of those of lesser birth - using speech that would not normally be heard within the walls of the Palace. He has not forgotten his origins, and he is not ashamed of them - for how else could he still speak the rougher dialect of the lower classes of Putney?
He has long since lost track of what is being said, for such language is utterly unfamiliar to a man born in far better circumstances, but Mistress Hall suddenly throws back her head and laughs at something that sounds to be a savage insult; the noise emerging in a rather foul cackle, "God above, you are a strange one, my Lord! Go, speak to the girls if you must - but if they know nothing, I shall chide you for wasting their time!"
The young women of the laundry would not normally see one so elevated in their midst, and Rich has no doubt that they would be most intimidated by the sight of the Lord Privy Seal. To his surprise, however, they show no such concerns, and seem quite content to answer his questions. Then he understands: They saw his quarrel with Mistress Hall, and the manner in which he conducted it. In that single act, Cromwell has disarmed them all - for they see him as one of their own, regardless of his fine clothes and ornaments. Despite his melancholy, he cannot help but be impressed at Cromwell's cleverness.
The first few girls they ask look at the fragment dutifully, and shake their heads. While they are required to clean garments of such grandeur, they have not seen a cloth of that nature.
Then, at last, they have some luck; for one girl does recall it, "Yes, my Lord. I remember it - though I saw it back at Christmastide - it ain't been back 'ere since."
"Christmastide?" Cromwell prompts, as Rich hastily scribbles.
"Yes, my Lord. It had some 'orrible greasy sauce slopped down it. It were a doublet. We was told to get the stain out - no matter what it took. Get it out - that was what we was told."
"Whose was it?"
"They didn't say - but it were bound to be someone royal, weren't it? No one else wears a doublet like that, does they?"
"Do you know what sort of velvet this is?"
She shakes her head, "I knows someone who would, my Lord," she answers, "Sally Shapsley - one of the seamstresses. She knows everything there is to know about cloth - if she can't tell you about it, no one can't."
Cromwell ignores the multitude of negatives in the final statement, "Where can I find her?"
The attics occupied by the seamstresses are badly appointed, and rather poorly lit. How they can work, Cromwell cannot begin to imagine, and he makes a mental note to speak to the Household department about relocating them to workrooms with more light.
Sally Shapsley is sitting at one of the tables closest to the few dormer windows, indicating superior status amongst those with little status to claim. Her clothing is well sewn, which is no surprise, though the fabric is simple broadcloth in a dull, earthy beige. Unlike the laundresses, who witnessed Cromwell's slightly ridiculous spat with Mistress Hall, she views him with that same sense of terror that all underlings have for the man who brought down a Queen.
"Forgive our intrusion, Miss Shapsley," he is, once more, the very soul of courtesy, "I was speaking to one of the laundresses who advised me that you could be a great help to us in identifying a fragment of cloth that has come into our possession."
Her eyes nervous, she nods, "I can try, my Lord."
As she takes the fragment, her expression changes; as her expertise comes to the fore and pushes the shyness away, "It is - was - a very fine cloth, my Lord," she says, speculatively, "Despite the condition of the nap, I think it to be pile-on-pile silk of the highest quality. Most such velvets are made by the Venetians, and I think this to be so. It would be very, very expensive to buy in any quantity, and certainly in such a shade as this, for I think it has faded a little in the washing. It would have been rather more vivid when it was made."
"Who do you think would be most likely to have obtained it?" Cromwell asks, still magnificently polite.
"Only someone of means, my Lord. Most would not be permitted to wear a garment made of this cloth, for its quality and luxury is very much meant only for those at the highest state."
"Such as?" he prompts, patiently.
"No less than a Duke - and possibly higher." She pauses, and frowns, "I think, my Lord, that it would be a great surprise to me if the garment from which this came had not been made for, and worn, by someone royal."
"We have spent half a morning questioning a bundle of women to discern only what we already knew." Rich says, bitterly, "We knew that the wearer was royal - it could not have been any other."
"Perhaps," Cromwell says, mildly, "But nonetheless, confirmation by one who has true knowledge of the matter can only aid us, can it not?"
"In what? Telling us that which we had worked out for ourselves?"
"Return to the investigation room, Richard. Transcribe your notes and set them upon the wall. We have no choice but to move in the smallest of steps - for we must take every care to build our case against our suspect. If we do not, then we shall fail in our aim, and thus serve, and save, no one."
Rich sighs, and nods. Watching him turn and depart, Cromwell sighs, too. If only it could be as easy to prove Fitzroy's guilt as his colleague wants it to be. They shall have only one chance to end this - for if they accuse, and fail, who shall stop the dread 'prince' then? He shall see himself as truly invincible if those who know of his guilt are driven to the block. They cannot rest at the point where jurors could consider their souls safe from doubt in pronouncing guilt - they must go beyond that: to absolute, irrefutable proof. And even that may not be enough.
Besides, he does not want Rich with him - not when he intends to question others about lost jewels.
If there is one good thing - small though it is - about Kathryn having fallen into the clutches of Fitzroy, it is that the loss of a jewel has stood out, and is something that might aid them. If he can find it, and retrieve it, then he shall do so - but if he cannot, then he must not let the opportunity that it affords him to pass him by. Perhaps the theft was not unique? If so, then it may be that Fitzroy has them, and, if he does - and can be shown to have them, then what answer can he give for their presence in his possession?
"Forgive me, Miss Wright," he says, as she answers his summons at the door of the Countess of Derby's apartments, "I was wondering if you could assist me with a further question that I have in relation to Miss Hamme."
She nods, though fortunately she is now past the bursting-into-tears-at-the-mention-of-a-name stage.
"Are you aware if any of her possessions were missing when they were gathered together?"
She sighs, briefly, "I do not think so. I assisted with the matter, but then…" she stops, "No…no, forgive me my Lord, I think I do recall. There was one item we could not locate."
"Could you describe it?" He has no ink or quill, but he does have a stick of charcoal, which will have to do.
"It was a small jewel - a rather pretty diamond drop pendant set in silver-gilt filigree. I think it had been left to Anne by her mother, so we were all very sad when we could not find it."
Cromwell scribbles hastily, "Was that all that could not be found?"
"Other than some linens, which we eventually traced to the laundry, yes." She pauses, "You have not found the one who killed her, then?"
"Alas, not as yet, Miss Wright - but we have made some progress, and I have hopes that we might. But I must ask you to keep that to yourself, for we do not wish to alert the killer that we have uncovered their identity."
She nods, "I hope you find him, my Lord. For Anne."
"I shall endeavour to do so, Miss Wright. Thank you for your aid."
Miss Seaton, Louise Knotte's former Chambermaid, is not as fearful of him this time about; she recalls how kind he was to her, "I do recall, when we were clearing her possessions - there was one thing missing. I remember her showing it to me, for it was a gift from one of her previous men, and it was the most valuable thing she had."
"What was it?"
"It was a long gold pin that she used to secure her hood to her coif, my Lord. It had a rather fine decoration at the top, with some loops and chains, and an emerald at the top. She had three of them - and one was gone. I thought she must have lost it."
Nodding, he makes a note, Louise Knotte - decorated gold pin with emerald setting.
Unlike Emma Wright, she does not offer a query over the progress of the investigation. She is, after all, a servant; and thus not permitted to be so forward. Grateful to her for her assistance, however, Cromwell bows to her as though she were one of the fine ladies of the court, "My thanks to you Miss Seaton. It is my hope that your aid shall bring us to a successful conclusion."
Lady Mary Scrope, on the other hand, is much more determined to know what is happening, "Surely you have made some progress, my Lord?"
"I am not at liberty to say, my Lady. Suffice to say that we are continuing our enquiries and are in hopes of a successful conclusion to this matter. Could you advise me if anything belonging to Miss Culver was found to be missing?"
"I am not aware of anything," she says, though Cromwell notices a swift movement of her eyes towards a small coffer that sits upon a nearby dresser, and a spreading redness on the back of her neck.
"Have you anything remaining that was in her possession?" He asks, a little pointedly. She reddens even more.
"Nothing, my Lord."
"Are you quite sure, my Lady?" His eyes narrow - one of his most effective tactics.
She turns, as though remembering the coffer, "Oh, yes - forgive me. I am keeping this coffer of her jewels safe - for I intend to return it to the family myself. I do not trust a courier with such items." She is speaking too quickly, but Cromwell does not care. He is interested only in whether the killer took a jewel - not petty pilfering by so-called Gentlefolk.
Still babbling about the duplicity of messengers, she brings the coffer to him, and begins to delve into it. Then she stops, "There is something missing, my Lord." She says.
"And what is it?"
"A diamond fur-clasp. It was gold - set with six fine-cut diamonds."
"Are you certain?" he asks, his eyes fixed upon her in a most unnerving manner.
"Yes, my Lord," she quavers, fearfully, "I give you my word."
Given that you intended to keep those jewels for yourself, my Lady, I suspect your word is worth less than a pile of shit. He thinks, but her wide, frightened eyes speak more truthfully than her words, and he makes a quick note: Sarah Culver, Gold fur clasp with six cut diamonds set thereon.
His eyes hard, he nods, politely, and takes his leave.
The collection of coffers is small, and the contents a sad statement of a life lived on the edge of poverty and reliant upon the gifts of others to keep all together. Elizabeth Milton has no friends to dispatch her possessions back to her family, and thus they seem destined to remain stored in a closet until their provenance is forgotten. At which point they shall likely be thrown on a bonfire.
Sighing to himself, Cromwell burrows into each coffer, until he discovers a small jewel box. With no inventory, he has no idea what might be missing, so his exploration of the contents of the box is slow and careful. It does not take long, however, to uncover a single pearl cluster loop earring that has no partner. As he cannot say with certainty that the missing jewel was not simply lost, his note this time is more speculative, Elizabeth Milton - pearl cluster earring?
He does not need to check what was taken from Kat.
"Why are you doing this?" he mutters to himself, "Damn you - why take something so small from them? Are you collecting items? For what purpose? Are they reminders of your act? God, why steal when you have so much already?"
And he realises then that he is no longer speculating - in his mind, he knows that his quarry is the son of the King.
Rich has long since finished transcribing his notes by the time Cromwell returns, and they are pinned to the wall. Perusing them, Cromwell opts not to make mention of the obvious blots on some of them that can only be the result of tears falling onto the ink. For a moment, he feels his own grief rising near to the surface, and forces it back down. How can he claim to feel the pain that Rich feels now? Liz has been gone nearly ten years; Kat a mere three days. There is no comparison; and yet, at the same time, perhaps there is.
"Have you uncovered anything else?" Rich asks, quietly.
"In some respects, no. But in others, yes." Cromwell says, still looking at the papers on the wall, "I spoke to those who were close to the previous victims. It seems that Kat was not the only one from whom something valuable was taken."
The chair behind him screeches back as Rich rises and comes round the table to join him, "He took from others?"
Cromwell nods, and sits on the table, "Something small from each one. I shall add them to the papers for each victim."
"You shall not. Your writing is offensive."
"Then I shall not." He hands over the charcoal scribbles, and watches as Rich carefully, neatly, transfers the information to each paper.
"Why has he done this?" Rich asks, as he pins the last of the papers back to the wall.
"That, I cannot begin to imagine." Cromwell admits, "To have carried out such depraved acts would, to me, demand that the perpetrator force such horrors from his mind at the first opportunity - and yet, it would appear that our killer prefers instead to revel in what he has done." He pauses, and closes his eyes, "Forgive me."
"Is he in league with the devil?" Rich chooses to ignore the import of the statement, "Or perhaps possessed by one?"
"I cannot help but wonder. I have never seen any such behaviour as this - it defies any understanding that I have of humanity. Perhaps, in the mingling of royal and common blood, some aberration has developed within his mind. Thank God he is leaving Court tomorrow."
"So you think it to be beyond doubt that the killer is Fitzroy?"
Cromwell sighs, "Yes, Richard. I do."