CHAPTER THREE
A Chamber Filled with Blood
Buried in papers, as always, Cromwell has cramped, inkstained fingers, and a rising bad mood. With the first phase of his work completed, Rich is largely underemployed at present; and, while that will certainly change when the work to dissolve the large monastic houses begins, his overstated boredom irks the pressed Minister a great deal. Why does he not offer to help? His legal background is extensive, his skill at interpreting the law undeniable - and yet he sits at his desk and scribbles on rough paper without aim. He has returned late from the midday dinner, too - and Cromwell can see from his slightly dishevelled state that he has spent those lost hours with his mistress again.
He has no such woman in his life; not now. His one illegitimate child had caused Liz so much hurt that he had never considered treating his marriage vows so lightly ever again. And then she had died, joining his two sweet daughters in God's care and leaving him behind with only Gregory to love. He cannot remember thinking at any point since those darkest of days that he would relish female company once more; but then, he seems not to have been able to get out of the habit of grieving. Instead, he wears it like a familiar cloak that encloses him and protects him to some degree even if its inside is coated with venomous thorns that occasionally draw blood and - every now and again - stab him to the deepest core of his soul. Besides, he thinks briskly to himself, when does he have the time for a woman these days?
While Rich might regard his attendance in the offices with disdain, he is not fool enough to do the same with the Privy Council, and they depart for the daily meeting together, yet apart. Neither say a word - though there is an almost tangible air of reproach on Cromwell's part, for he would appreciate assistance from Rich, who has nothing much to do, and receives nothing but carefully structured obliviousness.
Today's meeting is short again; for, with summer at its height, the Commons have returned to their boroughs, and any work that requires their debate is now in abeyance. As this includes the bill to legitimise Fitzroy and add him to the line of succession, that too shall have to wait - a matter that is not lost upon the King's Grace, who chafes to have an heir by whatever means possible. That Jane has not somehow become instantaneously pregnant through the mere act of exchanging wedding vows seems to have irked him all the more. Her continued failure to conceive after two whole months of marriage is leaving gossips muttering the dreadful word 'barren'; though all at the table who have sired children know well that nature does not always act with the speed that men demand. Needless to say, not so much of a fraction of the blame for this failure is the King's - and not even the bravest of the whisperers suggests that his seed might be faltering.
The warmth of the room, coupled with the growing stink of the King's suppurating wound, renders all present most eager to carry through business and escape. Henry's obvious discomfort serves to darken his mood further - and there is no one who thinks that they might depart the chamber without having seen his temper explode. They do not have to wait long.
"Christ's wounds!" Henry bellows, as Cromwell reports that yet another bill must await the return of Parliament to progress further, "What is the point of these burghers? Do they exist to serve me, or to serve their own interests?"
No one replies - none dare. The King, however, was asking only a rhetorical question, so he does not care, but instead continues, "I have a son that cannot succeed me, and still he is not served well! He is wedded, and soon, I have no doubt, shall provide me with grandchildren - and yet neither he nor they have their birthright settled upon them!"
Cromwell sits calmly; inscrutable as ever, while those about him show varied degrees of concern and sympathy; for they are not tasked with the responsibility of bringing this wish about. Rich's eyes narrow slightly as he watches Cromwell, waiting to see how the Chief Minister shall respond to this complaint; for respond he must.
"Majesty," he says, carefully, "The Commons are most keen to ensure the legitimacy of his grace the Duke of Richmond - and to bring him to his rightful estate. They are, however, equally determined to secure the rights and future of the Queen's issue, in the event that she bears you a son."
All know - even if the King will not believe it - that England would not accept a legitimised bastard as King if there is a legitimate Prince also in the line of succession. Everything hinges upon the Queen and her ability to bear children. If she brings a son into the world, and Fitzroy has been legitimised, where shall this leave that true-born babe? The potential strife and civil discord that could follow does not bear thinking about. It is for this reason that Cromwell has been attempting, as discreetly as he can, to delay the progress of the bill.
Henry glowers at Cromwell, his expression dangerous; but he does not react. The Chief Minister is right - and even the King cannot deny it. Jane might not yet be pregnant, but that does not mean that she shall not be in the future, and so all care must be taken to protect the rights of a full-blood prince over a half-blood one. It does not, however, mollify him - for he has all but promised Fitzroy that he shall be a prince of the Blood before the year is out.
The rest of the meeting passes without incident, other than the growing reek of that blasted leg. It is, of course, only to be expected in the heat of late July, but still it is horribly unpleasant, and all depart with relief as they can, at last, cover their noses with scented kerchiefs to remove the stench from their nostrils.
As he returns to the offices, it is soon apparent to Cromwell that Rich does not intend to join him there. As he would truly welcome some additional legal experience with a set of highly complex clauses in one of the draft bills he has awaiting him, he is not pleased.
"Get Whorwood to do it." Rich advises, crossly, "It's his job now, not mine."
"He has his own work to do, Mr Rich." Cromwell snaps back, "I am not aware that you are overly employed at this point in time."
Rich has promised himself some time with Kat, and has no interest in Cromwell's bothering, "I have other plans."
"And what would those plans be, given that they take you away from your place of work?" Cromwell asks, rather pointlessly, for it is not as though Rich is under any obligation to be present in the offices as he has no formalised working hours.
"Those plans would be none of your damned business, my Lord."
"Ah." Cromwell's eyes narrow, that single word loaded with meaning.
"I might be obliged to work with you, my Lord," Rich hisses back, furiously, "but that does not mean that I am beholden to you for my every move. I am not a schoolboy, and you are not a schoolmaster. My plans for the rest of the day are my own affair."
In every sense of the word. Cromwell thinks, but is not petty enough to speak the words aloud, "I have no interest in the minutiae of your intentions, Mr Rich." he says, as annoyed as his colleague, "I am, however, not overly well disposed to such dereliction of duty. You serve the King - and thus I expect you to do so. Your absences from the offices have not gone unnoticed." He does not insert to tumble with your mistress - much as he wishes to.
"Very well then," Rich growls, "If it please you, my Lord, henceforth, I shall sign a book to note the time of my arrival, and again to note the time of my departure. Thus you can watch over my every move without the annoyance of interrogating me to my face."
Cromwell becomes aware that they have drawn something of an audience, many of whom are quite enjoying the contretemps. He swore he wouldn't do this - but he has reached such a point of annoyance with Rich that he has failed to live up to that intention. Rich is glaring at him, and he knows that he is glaring back. It all seems so petty and stupid…
"My Lord," another voice interrupts, and he turns to see the Palace Constable. His face is pale, and a little grey tinged; his eyes rather wide, "Forgive my intrusion."
Given how ridiculous we were starting to look, Constable, Cromwell thinks, I not only forgive the intrusion, I welcome it, "There is nothing to forgive. What is the issue that you wish to report to me?"
He swallows rather hard, as though attempting to stop his gorge from rising, "We have found a body."
Cromwell frowns, "A body? Forgive me, Constable - but is this not within your jurisdiction? Why have you brought the matter to me?"
"Ordinarily, I would agree with you, my Lord," the Constable agrees, "but in this case, I fear, I felt I had to bring the matter to you. It is…" he pauses, and swallows again, "…it has been found in a most unpleasant aspect, and thus I consider it important that you should be aware of it."
And again. Cromwell thinks to himself, The problem has been made mine.
As though he has the bloody time to be dealing with a death. Just as well he has someone under his command who is not currently short of it, "Mr Rich."
"What?" Rich asks, rather rude in his uncertainty.
"Fetch paper, quill and ink from the offices. I require your assistance."
Not a chance in hell. "Mine? Might I ask why?"
"You may: no other is able to make notes at the speed words are spoken as you are, and I suspect that skill shall be needed in this instance. Thus I require your assistance and you are clearly available to assist me. Please fetch paper, quill and ink."
In an instant, Rich regrets his smug display when he first arrived in the offices. With all around him expecting him to do as bid, he does not feel brave enough to defy Cromwell, and instead nods crossly, before turning on his heel to fetch the demanded items. He also adds a board so that he shall have something to rest on as he writes. It is clear that this is why Cromwell has demanded his services.
When he returns, Cromwell and the Constable are conversing, and the Chief Minister looks most grim. As he joins them, the Constable turns to him, "Forgive me, my Lord, but I think it important that you also be aware. The corpse is in a most grotesque condition - for it has lain undiscovered for several days. It was the stink of putrefaction that brought it to the attention of a guard - and thus was discovered."
Rich does not see it, but he feels the blood draining from his face, "In that case, my Lord," he turns to Cromwell, and holds out the board, paper, quill and ink pot, "I request to be excused from this incident." He most certainly does not want to be in the presence of a stinking corpse.
Cromwell's eyes narrow, and Rich chills inside, "Your request is refused, Mr Rich. I require your ability to write at speed; nothing more. Thus, your presence is necessary."
And what if I don't want to be present? "As you wish, my Lord." Bravery is not Rich's strong suit.
The Constable waits for them to finish their rather barbed conversation, and then sighs with relief as Cromwell nods at him to proceed, "This way, my Lords - but, I must warn you, it is a most barbarous sight: the victim has been mutilated."
He continues to warn as they go and, as they reach the corridor into which the chambers open, the reek becomes apparent - though it is mitigated by the open colonnade on the opposite side to the chambers. One of the palace guards, his face a ghastly grey-white, is standing at the entry, keeping people away - for all can smell that foul odour. It grows stronger as they approach a single door, and then the Constable opens it.
Cromwell's eyes widen, and his face goes ashen; when he speaks, his voice is a faint whisper: "Christ have mercy." For nothing. Nothing at all. Not even his time as a mercenary soldier, has prepared him for this.
The Chamber is one of lesser aspect, forming only a bedchamber with a small sitting area and fireplace to one side. The quarters for those of lower rank are all set in similar fashion - which has served only to emphasise the sheer degree of slaughter that exists within.
The stench of death and corruption is one that Cromwell has not experienced for many years - being the charnel house stink of a house full of wounded in the height of summer. In spite of himself, he must force himself to swallow down his nausea, and prevails upon himself to maintain his inscrutable aspect. It would not do for his composure to falter - not with the Constable watching him so intently. The man thinks him to be as free from humanity as a statue. When he speaks, it is in a firm, calm voice, "Fetch Doctor Butts, please."
Relieved to have an excuse to depart - even if only for a short while - the Constable turns and leaves. Beyond, Cromwell can see that Rich has hurriedly abandoned his secretarial equipment, and is slumped over the balustrade, his body heaving violently as he vomits into the flowerbed beyond. Unlike Cromwell, he has never truly seen death in its bloodiest aspect; and that inexperience has left him without the strong stomach that the Chief Minister is currently relying upon to retain his dignity. Sympathetic, he joins Rich and rests a hand upon his shoulder as he heaves yet again.
"God have mercy…" Rich gulps, faintly, "Christ above - what manner of creature could do that?" in his revulsion, he seems almost to have forgotten that he is supposed to regard the man beside him with intense dislike.
"I think, Mr Rich," Cromwell sighs, "we have been tasked with finding out; or, at least, once the Doctor has confirmed what seems obvious to me, the King shall demand that we do so."
"Not me, my Lord." Rich whispers, "I cannot be here - not with that…" he retches again, but this time nothing emerges to splatter the earth below.
"Believe me, Mr Rich." Cromwell continues, not without sympathy, "If I could release you from this duty, then I would do so - but I require your ability to note at speed. The state of that chamber suggests that accuracy of recording evidence shall be essential to our success in finding a perpetrator - and thus I need someone who can note down words as they are spoken; and none can do so but you." He pats Rich's shoulder again, "Remain here awhile in the breeze until Doctor Butts arrives. I shall call you when we need your assistance - we do not need you to enter the room."
Rich does not speak, but instead nods. Leaving him where he is, Cromwell turns back, and stands in the doorway, forcing himself to view the carnage beyond with detachment.
From the clothing, though split from décolletage to hem, the corpse is that of a woman - her identity no longer apparent, for her face has been disfigured with the savage application of a knife. Her torso and abdomen have been turned into a red-spattered hollow: gutted like a fresh-slaughtered hog, the organs and matter cast about the chamber, ground into the one limited stretch of woollen carpet or slathered about the wooden floor. Except for one: small, shrivelled and almost dried out from exposure to the air…
What is that?
He does not venture inside - partly for the sake of his shoes as not all of the substances within have dried, but mostly for fear of disturbing anything that might help them to understand who turned a woman into a mess of blood and gore. The walls are sprayed with iron-smelling brown streaks, but much of the room is undisturbed. Did she not struggle? Why not? Cromwell is at a loss. Sighing, he turns back to Rich, who is still leaning as far out over the balustrade as he can, attempting to avoid the hideous reek of the befouled chamber. Despite his dislike of the man, Cromwell feels sympathy. Rich has no desire to be here; no wish to be caught up in this vile crime - and he has no idea what one man can do to the body of another. Doubtless not the education he had in mind when he first came to Court. Needs must, however. He is available to help, and so he must. Whether he wants to or not.
Doctor Butts arrives with a swift stride, carrying a leather satchel with him while the Constable trails reluctantly in his wake, "And so we meet again, my Lord." He says, briskly, "It appears that we must be obliged to deal with one another over corpses." He pauses, and sniffs a few times, "Though, in this case, I suspect that I shall have a harder time than I did upon the Privy Bridge."
In spite of the ghastly sight of the chamber, Butts sets down his satchel to tend first to Rich, who is looking almost ready to faint, fetching out a bottle of something, and a cup, and directing his impromptu patient to wash out his mouth, "If I am to understand, you are to maintain a record of our investigation, my Lord. I consider it better that you are able to concentrate without the taste of vomit in your mouth." He nods approvingly as Rich takes a gulp and starts to swill it about his mouth, "I would advise you not to swallow it, though."
Rich stops, mid-swill.
Joining Cromwell at the door, Butts stares at the horror within the chamber, but does not show any other reaction, "This is quite shocking." He says - completely detached.
Cromwell nods, "I have not seen the like since my days as a soldier."
"When Mr Rich is ready to make the appropriate notes," Butts observes, as he looks back to see Rich leaning over the balustrade again - apparently intent on spitting out every last possible drop of the liquid, "I shall begin."
While he waits, he removes a ball of string, knotted at intervals, and dons a pair of gauntlets, "I should advise you to obtain a pair if you wish to handle anything in this room, my Lord. Given the spread of digestive matter, I also think it might be wise to cover your mouth and nose to avoid risk of contagion - there might be foul humours lurking in the air beyond."
Cromwell stares at him, his eyes widening in mild disgust. Rather than prevail upon one of the guards for gloves, however, he dispatches one to his quarters to seek a pair from his manservant - and also a kerchief, preferably one with some scent upon it.
"Your initial impressions, Doctor?" he asks, as they wait.
"How obvious would you like me to be?" Butts retorts, with a mild smile, "It is clear that this poor woman has been slaughtered with almost insane abandon - but if we are to identify a perpetrator, we must set all preconceptions aside and learn as best we can what she shall try to tell us with her mortal remains."
Cromwell nods, then turns back to Rich, who is trying to gather together his equipment again, though he looks as pale as everyone else, "Perhaps a chair might be of use to you in order to write comfortably?" He asks. He knows that the offer of a chair in any other circumstance would cause offence - for Rich has been made to look weak enough as it is and almost certainly has no wish to be made to look weaker still.
Still too nauseous to speak, Rich nods, though his expressive face is clearly displaying his relief and - to a small degree, at least - gratitude. He could not be making it clearer to Cromwell that he wants, more than anything, not to be here. As Cromwell feels very much the same, he cannot blame him, and summons one of the other guards, "Kindly fetch a chair for Sir Richard - if you can find something upon which he can rest papers and his ink pot, that would also be most useful."
The furniture arrives before the gloves and kerchief, so Rich is seated - as far from the chamber as he can be while still remaining in earshot - when the guard arrives. Donning the gloves, and tying the folded kerchief across his face to cover his mouth and nose, Cromwell nods to Butts, and the pair turn to the chamber beyond.
"The room is quite remarkably undisturbed," Butts begins, "I cannot see any sign of a violent struggle, for the furniture is righted, and shows no sign of having been toppled." He unravels the string gradually, "The string is knotted at intervals of one foot, my Lord, so we can gain some degree of accuracy in our measurements."
Carefully, Butts examines a streak of brown across a wall, "Dry blood, I think, my Lord." He advises, "This would certainly have been deposited before death, for it has not been set here deliberately. Instead, I suspect it must have come from her as she lived - possibly from the large vessels in her neck or arms."
Cromwell nods. He has seen for himself how blood can be almost fired from wounds at certain points on the body - indeed, he can remember a butcher of his acquaintance who cut a similar vessel in his own thigh - and was dead in less than ten minutes thanks to a torrent of blood flow that could not be staunched. He had not seen the incident, but those who had told of a spurting fountain of red.
"I take it that such a wound would have been most likely to have caused her demise, then?"
"I should agree with that, my Lord. I was helpless against such a wound upon the tiltyard not a year ago when a splinter reached into an armour joint."
"And thus the evisceration was post-mortem?"
"That is impossible to say. I think, however, it is safe to be assured that she would not have been conscious when it occurred. The damage to her body is such that I think it would have caused her blood to exit to a degree that the blood spurts on the walls would not have been made. Based upon my measurements - assuming she has not been moved into the position in which she lies - the spray must have been some three feet - and certainly no less than two."
"And what of her lower abdomen?" Cromwell asks, indicating the odd organ beside the corpse.
Butts crouches to examine the object, "It is the womb, I think - though its condition is very poor and it has shrivelled somewhat. It appears to have been most carefully excised - which is odd, as the rest of the body has been attacked with astonishing savagery." He pauses, "Forgive me, my Lord. I must make certain."
This time, however, Cromwell does not avert his eyes as Butts carefully parts the thighs of the corpse to examine her most secret place. As he pulls away, he sighs, "If she did not receive carnal attentions from her killer, then she had done so only a short time prior." He advises, "There is evidence of a man's seed."
"Do you think she did so willingly?" Cromwell asks, tiredly.
"That, I am afraid, I cannot tell at this point; I shall have to examine her more thoroughly. I think, despite all, that I shall carry out a more suitable post-mortem. Based upon my initial observations, I cannot say with certainty when she died, for the hot weather has worked against us. This is a most hideous crime, and the more that I know, the more that I can report to you - and the more chance we have of finding the individual, or individuals, who carried it out."
"Individuals?" Cromwell asks.
"Look about you." Butts advises, and Cromwell looks down.
"I did not see it." He says, and curses. The ghastly mess upon the floor has captured footprints - but which are those of the perpetrator, and which are theirs, he cannot say.
"Do not concern yourself." Butts says, "I have already found some in one part of the chamber where we have not walked. There are a number of prints in both blood and digestive matter."
Standing again, Butts begins to take measurements, and calls out distances as he does so. Seated outside, Rich has - as asked - carefully, albeit with the occasional retch, noted down the discussions verbatim. He completes his notes with the measurements dictated by Butts. As the doctor falls silent, he sits back and groans to himself, wishing he could leave. His gaze drops to the floor, and he loses himself for a moment in the intricacies of the patterns on the flagstones, and wishing he could be losing himself in the warmth of Kat's embrace. He looks up again as Butts and Cromwell emerge, their faces half obscured by the kerchiefs they have used, before returning his gaze to the floor.
Then he frowns. As they step from the room, they are leaving footprints. While the blood has dried, the other substances are less hardened, and some has been tracked out on their shoes. And yet, the flags are otherwise clean. If so much mess was made, how is it that none remains outside, even captured in the joints? If it had been, then perhaps the victim might have been found sooner…or something…he closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe slowly - and through his mouth - as his gorge rises again.
Unwilling to speak, for fear that he might puke, Rich instead carefully notes his thoughts down with his other scribbles. He can raise it tomorrow once he has transcribed them. He has no intention of doing that tonight.
"I shall arrange for the corpse to be transferred to a cool cellar," Butts advises, quietly, "If you could arrange for the room to be cleaned - since we have no additional investigations to undertake within it?"
Cromwell nods, "We shall convene on the morrow to discuss our findings."
"This woman was murdered, Gentlemen." Butts says, quietly, "I have no fear of being wrong in such statement - and her death was cruel. I think it important that we find the one who did this - and quickly. She deserves nothing less."
"I heartily agree." Cromwell replies, "I, for one, do not wish to come across something so ghastly again."