CHAPTER EIGHT

Christmas Blood

The weather is unseasonably warm, and there has been no frost for several days. Seated astride his Chestnut gelding, Cromwell departs Whitehall with some relief, for despite his nearness to his home, he is rarely free to escape there for more than a single night at a time. Today, however, he intends to remain with his extended family until the feast of St Stephen - a mere two days, admittedly, but still better than a single night now and then. Best of all, he shall have some time with the only link he still has to Liz, for Gregory shall be back from Cambridge again.

Her shade seems to flit alongside him as the horse clatters with sprightly steps past Charing Cross towards the Strand. There are few times when he permits himself to think of her for more than a passing moment, but today he is happy to bathe in the memories of their time together. As long as he forgets - just for a while - the man that he has become, he can imagine that he still warrants the love she gave him; for she shall never lose his, even though she is no longer with him. At least, however, he still has something of her - for Gregory has her eyes, and thus she looks upon him from the face of their son. Revelling in the times that he so rarely permits himself to recall, he is happily oblivious of all that he has left behind. That can wait until he is obliged to return - and instead he looks forward to the welcome he shall receive at Austin Friars.

In his quarters, far from the children he misses, and the wife he does not, Rich sits by the fire and reads; something he has had little time to do over the last few weeks. With Aske safely wrapped up in the King's false friendship, the danger of rebellion has receded - though he still has mild palpitations over the eighth of the articles presented by the so-called Pilgrims. When he had accepted the post of Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations, it had never occurred to him that to do so might place his neck at risk. Even now, despite the lull, he still feels an uncertain nervousness that the King might be sincere in his overtures to Aske, and it is Cromwell and he that are being played false.

Up on the overmantel, a rather fine little clock that cost a ridiculous sum of money chimes the hour of seven, and he sets the book aside, for Kat is planning to join him to sup before they attend the Midnight mass to welcome the birth of the Christ Child. Not that they shall attend together, of course - partly because she is his mistress, not his wife, but mostly because she dreads to be in public, and conceals herself as much as she can from prying eyes and cruel stares.

She is not late tonight, for it has been a week since he saw her last. The Countess, a woman of the world in every respect, has dismissed her for the evening, and does not begrudge her Kathryn's happiness - for what other happiness does she have?

Once inside, the door closed, she removes the veil and crosses the room to sit with him by the fire, "I have missed you, Richie," she says, "a week is far too long to be apart."

He takes her hand, "Forgive me, Kat," he sighs, "this last week has been burdensome with work, and I have had no opportunities to seek you out - for it is hard to sup with you when I have not the time to sup."

"Then you have time tonight?" she asks, archly.

"I have twelve days' worth - and I am willing to negotiate with her Grace for your time if that is necessary. I wish to keep you with me as much as she will permit."

His manservant sets out their supper, and leaves them in peace. Rather than claret, Rich has found some more riesling, and they share it over a roasted leg of hogget rubbed with rosemary and thyme as they ignore the momentous events of the autumn, and Kat instead entertains him with raucous gossip of the kind that he rarely hears in more masculine company. He is tired of listening to reports of land holdings, wealth and tithes, tired of bloody Pilgrims, tired of that naïve idiot Aske. To hear light nonsense that touches upon foolish liaisons and accidental faux pas with love letters feels almost refreshing. If it were Kat waiting for him in Essex, then he would certainly have gone there - and equally certainly never come back. But she is not; and so he stays.

She departs before he does, to ensure that she can find a safe place to remain out of sight in the Chapel Royal. Rich, on the other hand, being a Privy Councillor, is expected to take a prominent position with those who are still at Court instead of departed to their estates. Viscount Beauchamp is there, of course, being the Queen's brother, and so is Brandon - his young wife Catherine at his side. Beauchamp's wife is also with him, though in their case their closeness seems equally an insurmountable divide. Then again, if Kat is to be believed, Lady Beauchamp is currently being tupped by Francis Bryan, so perhaps that is not a surprising as it appears.

Cranmer being in Canterbury, to oversee the services there, it is the tiresome old windbag Gardiner who leads the celebrations tonight. Being as thoroughly conservative as Cranmer is progressive, he has ensured that the service is as determinedly Catholic as he can make it without directly prostrating himself before the Pope. Just as well Cromwell isn't here, Rich thinks to himself as he stands to the side while the Royal Family make their entrance.

Despite, yet again, failing to conceive, Jane is still at Henry's side, for her retiring nature keeps her safe from her continued lack of a child in her belly. They walk hand in hand, with all outward displays of familial affection. Behind them, Fitzroy seems to have been prevailed upon to be more considerate of his half-sister, and this time he escorts her - not that either of them seem to be overly appreciative of the requirement that they show solidarity to the Court. She is bright eyed with religious fervour, but her stiff stance all but shouts her wish to be apart from the youth at her side; and Fitzroy, too, seems to be remarkably febrile: he fidgets, his eyes are flicking left and right as he takes in the faces about him as though seeking out a route to escape. Despite the ceremonial, despite his cloth of gold, despite his lauded high place - it seems to Rich that the boy cannot abide to be where he is, and longs to flee. Surely he cannot be that desperate not to be near his half-sister?

But then, after nearly an hour of droning latin in a large stone space that even a multitude of candles cannot heat, Rich feels much the same. The chill of stone walls has kept the unseasonable warmth thoroughly at bay, and he regrets his decision to wear one of his thinner doublets.

As Gardiner finally speaks the Grace, allowing the assembled throng to depart - either to their beds or to continue carousing - Rich waits in one of the quieter corridors for Kat to seek him out. He might not be able to stand with her in the service, but he wants to escort her back to his chambers. She will, of course, wait until there are few people about, so he is obliged to stand in the dim light of the torches for nearly half an hour before she joins him, leaving him to be entertained by the sound of people's voices as they celebrate, argue or even, in some cases, are singing luck-visit songs. Somewhere off in the distance, he hears a sudden sharp scream, but then there is a woman's laughter. Someone must have ambushed their lover, then. He wonders if he dare try that with Kat, but decides against it.

Then, finally, she is there. Even with no one about, she will not remove her veil until they are safely behind closed doors, so they instead walk in companionable silence through the dim corridors to his chambers. Words shall come later. Much later.

She is looking at him as he opens his eyes, and Rich smiles to see her so close. Even though it has been less than seven days since last she shared his bed, he has learned to loathe waking alone, and misses her when she is not beside him.

"Greetings of the season, Kat." He murmurs, still a little drowsy.

"Greetings of the season to you, too - dear one." She whispers back, her lips seeking his almost at once. Again, always again, he wishes that he had found her soon enough to escape the marriage that he had been made to make, even though her ruined face would have ensured no hope of nuptials had he done so.

There shall be another mass later this morning, before the King leads his Court in the grandest of Christmas feasts at noontime, so they do not linger together in the warmth as long as either would have liked, instead breaking their fast with spiced bread and fresh cheese beside a cheerful fire, for the weather has turned chill again overnight.

Christmastide being a time for the giving of gifts, Kat has found him a volume of poems by Aristophanes, bound in intricately tooled and gilded red leather. Greek is, and has always been, the classical language that he has enjoyed the most - perhaps because it has an entirely different alphabet to absorb - and the works within the book are amongst his favourites.

"Thank you, Kat," he says, examining the pages, "I shall enjoy these."

"I expect you to read them to me later." She advises, for she loves to hear the sound of his voice.

Rising from his chair, Rich retrieves a small velvet pouch from a nearby sideboard, and hands it to Kat, "For you."

Intrigued, she opens the pouch and tips out a gold chain, from which hangs an exquisite black pearl, held in a setting of gold that resembles vines and leaves. She has never desired ostentation, for all it brings her is scorn - but he has taken great care to seek out a jewel that is understated and elegant, for no woman of gentle birth should ever be without jewels. She does not need to know how much it cost him.

"Oh, Richie…" she whispers, softly, and he knows that he has chosen well, "Thank you - it is beautiful."

"As are you."

She looks at him, "No one has ever described me so - for I am not."

"You are to me." He says, simply. She knows he speaks the truth - for she can read him as adeptly as Cromwell can, and her eyes fill with tears. At once, his face falls, thinking he has hurt her, and he is at her side, "Forgive me, Kat - I did not mean to cause you pain."

"No, Richie - you have not. Truly you have not." She reaches out to grasp at his hand, "They are words I have not heard since I was a child, and I had forgotten what it would mean to be thought beautiful."

He kneels before her, taking her other hand, "Until I found you," he tells her, "I cared for none but myself - I have always thought only for my own advancement, and my own safety. For those of us who circle the throne, the risk of losing all is ever present - and I have acted reprehensibly to bring about the King's will, and to seek gain from the fall of others. I was sinking into a vile slough of my own making, but you are the hand that has reached to pull me from it. This mere jewel is scant reward for your rescue; for I think my very soul was in peril."

"Then we are both broken, and so we mend each other." She says, softly. Then sits back, her expression more brisk, "Read to me, Richie, I found those poems purely for my own entertainment."

They are obliged to be separate again for the Mass, and he cannot even see her within the Chapel, so well hidden is she. His rank also precludes him from dining with her, for he is expected to attend the King as a Privy Councillor, and thus must be in the hall, while she hides from such open display. Thus Rich sits and fidgets as all about him carouse, waiting for the dancing to begin. Once all are weaving about to the strains of a galliard, he shall be able to escape from view to spend time with her again. None expect him to dance, for he cannot seem to keep a rhythm in his head, and Kat would be unable to find any other partner. Instead, he finds her seated on a bench above the hall in the gallery, and they sit together and talk quietly of nothing much while the music drifts up from below. She is veiled, and he is sitting on a separate bench, the arms of the furniture between them, so none pay them attention. He is, after all, the despised Richard Rich, and she is the veiled pock-faced woman. For the wags of the court, they seem the ideal pairing - she is ugly on the outside, while he is ugly on the inside. Other than that, no one spares them so much as a glance - and they do not notice as she gently examines the beautiful black pearl that she now wears on a chain about her neck.

The celebrations below are becoming more raucous now, as the King and his family have retired to their apartments. The dancing continues, but so does the drinking, and it is not long before a fracas breaks out.

"Damn you for a prudish whore!"

Rich frowns at the bizarre description - how can one be a whore, and be a prude? Bemused, he rises from the bench, and leans over the balustrade, curious as to who is involved in such an altercation. He is not surprised to discover that it is the ever-touchy Simon Paxton, though it seems as though the 'prudish whore' is one of the Queen's ladies, who looks both shocked and distressed as two of the other Minions hustle him away.

"What happened?" He asks someone standing nearby.

"I am not sure," the man - some courtier he has not seen before - replies, "they were dancing, I think, and he wished to kiss her, but she turned away."

And so Paxton lost his temper.

"What was it?" Kat asks as he returns to her.

"Sir Simon Paxton took umbrage at the chastity of one of the Queen's ladies. Apparently his desire to plant a kiss upon her in the midst of the dance entitled him to do so. She did not appreciate that - and he chastised her. Fortunately with words rather than his fists - for the Queen would have approached the King over it."

"I am amazed he is still at Court."

"As am I." Rich agrees, "His temper is fearsome." He shrugs, dismisses the contretemps from his mind and resumes their quiet conversation together.

Her refusal to eat in public requires Kat to retire to the Countess's rooms again as the Court sups, for Rich is obliged to remain for that as well. With the closing of the day, the Royal Family have returned to the Hall, thus obliging those present to moderate their behaviour once again, or leave to continue their carousing elsewhere. Given that most have now been eating for most of the day, few are still managing to do more than simply pick at the newest remove, though the King is reaching for handfuls of victuals as though he has been starved for a week. Beside him, Jane sits demurely and sups now and again from a gold cup of claret, while Mary sits to her left and glowers. To the King's right, Fitzroy spears a leg of turkey-cock with his knife, and sets to as though in competition with his father. Watching them, Rich discovers that he has lost his appetite.

As soon as decorum permits, he excuses himself from those about him - though it is of supreme indifference to them whether he is present or not - and returns to his quarters to spend the rest of the evening with Kat.

The change in the weather seems quite absolute, with clear skies and a bitter frost that has obliged Cromwell to find himself a much warmer cloak than that he wore when he left for Austin Friars. Despite its closeness to the Palace, he can never stay for as long as he would like - and, indeed, he is surprised that they are still at Whitehall. It can only be the growing cold that keeps them there - for the sheer degree of waste that is washed into the river would stink to high heaven were it still summer.

His own household has been warm and filled with life - a welcome change to the almost poisonous atmosphere in which he would normally reside - and he almost wishes that he could simply turn about and return there. Almost - but not quite; he has set himself something of a mission in life, and to abandon it seems almost a sacrilege. Thus he allows the gelding to clatter across the Fleet bridge, and down Fleet Street at a sharp pace. It is unlikely that anything has happened in his absence other than the accumulation of hangovers, but nonetheless, now that he is on his way back, his senses are sharpening once again.

A number of other Courtiers are returning, their horses being seen to by grooms as he rides into the enormous yard. Many have been absent, though many more have not - for who would want to be away from the King, and the attendant opportunities to shine as best they can in the absence of brighter jewels?

He smirks to himself as he dismounts, and hands the horse over to one of the few grooms not engaged with other beasts, before shouldering a satchel and wandering idly back through the corridors to his quarters. That no one has accosted him is, to his mind, the best indication that he has missed nothing, and he is relieved, for his hands and feet are cold, and he would welcome nothing more than a seat beside a fire, and a good tankard of mulled wine to chase away the chill.

As noon approaches, he decides to go in search of a meal, rather than prevail upon his manservant to visit the kitchens on his behalf. Making his way to the hall, he finds Rich, clearly with the same goal in mind. It is immediately obvious to Cromwell from his colleague's mood that he has spent as much of the last two days as he can in the company of Kat, for he is rather unnervingly cheerful, and seems quite content to talk as they fall in together, "Was all well with you over the holidays, Thomas?" he asks.

"It was, Richard. It most certainly was - all of my family are in good health, and Gregory has nearly finished his studies. If all goes well, I should be able to induct him into royal service before the coming year is out."

Rich nods. Being considerably younger than Cromwell, his children - all girls so far except for his recently born son Hugh - are generally not old enough yet to have begun a formal education, "Robert Aske is still thinking himself a god amongst men - or as much as a man of his modesty is likely to think it." He continues, "The King gave him a fine furred robe for Christmas, and he dined but two chairs away at the high table."

Cromwell sighs, "Much as I admire his Majesty's ability to dissemble," he admits, "I do not feel right in my conscience that we are allowing this to happen. A man such as Aske does not deserve to be treated so - for he is doing only that which he thinks to be right."

"And we are not?" Rich asks.

"I did say 'that which he thinks to be right." Cromwell smiles sadly, "That he cannot see the need for reform is unfortunate - but it is hardly a criminal act."

"Unlike leading the commons in rebellion against their Lawful King." Rich adds, rather grimly, "That is a criminal act."

"Perhaps - but it may be that his Majesty shall grant him mercy when all is done. It is not unheard of for him to do so."

The smells of the victuals that shall soon be brought to the hall wafts across the courtyard from the Kitchens, and they both pick up their pace, for each is hungry. They are not, however, granted access; for in their path is the Palace Constable, and from the colour of his complexion, and the look upon his face, neither Cromwell nor Rich are taken aback by his words.

"Forgive me, my Lords - but another body has been found."

The room is quite small again - another place that serves largely for the sole purpose of sleeping - which has served to contain the horror in a truly graphic context. Thanks to the colder weather, the reek is more of blood and digestive matter than putrefaction, but nonetheless the unfortunate guard keeping people at bay is still pale as a sheet, and - every now and again - he struggles not to retch.

"Constable - fetch Doctor Butts." Cromwell orders, suddenly detached again, "Mr Rich, if you could secure paper and writing materials?" he turns to the trembling guard, "A chair for Mr Rich would also be welcome, as he shall need to be able to rest papers upon something - even if only his knees."

The three men scatter in their separate quests, leaving Cromwell to stand guard over the ghastly chamber. He does not enter, but instead takes in the awful scene slowly and meticulously. Again, the woman - for it must be, wears a dress that has, as before, been split from décolletage to hem. Her face is gone - a mess of cuts and blood - while her torso has been gutted, the organs cut free and scattered about with the blood and gore. And there it is again - a small organ that has been carefully excised and set down beside her recumbent remains.

Rich returns first, with paper, ink, quill and a board upon which to set the papers. He resolutely stands away from the open door, and tries as best he can to breathe through his mouth. Cromwell is not surprised to see that he has gone very pale, and could not look more grateful that he has not eaten. Once the guard returns with the chair, he directs it to be placed - again - as far away as possible while still being in earshot.

Butts arrives after a few more minutes, with his measuring cord, and he stands in the doorway for a short time, taking in the scene, "Most unpleasant."

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, to the sound of a scratching nib as Rich commences his note-taking, "Your first impressions?"

"Much the same as previously," Butts says, with a sigh, "though I confess that I would have wished it that we were not facing such a scene again."

They are much more careful this time around, carefully measuring exactly where the woman lies, where blood trails have been laid, and measuring every footprint that they can see. Outside, Rich continues to scribble furiously, though the combination of gruesome detail, and the occasions when he forgets to breathe through his mouth cause him to gag now and then. As before, he wishes to be anywhere but where he is - but still continues to listen, and still writes down all that he hears.

"There would seem to be more than one person involved." Butts says, "For there are several footprints of different sizes - though it is not possible to determine precisely how many, for it may be that there are two people with feet of a similar size. There is naught that is unique about the prints; I cannot determine whether they have come from shoes or boots, nor is it possible to say whether the wearer is wealthy or poor."

"It does confirm our suspicions that the perpetrator is being aided, however." Cromwell adds, "For, again, there is no sign of unpleasantness upon the floor beyond this chamber."

"There is nothing." Rich confirms, a little weakly, from outside.

"I think it likely that the method of dispatch was the same as before," Butts continues, "for the blood has streaked across the walls again - a distance of some…" he pauses as he measures, "two and a half, to three, feet. Thus I would say that a vein was opened - probably in the neck." As he stops, they hear Rich gag again.

"Do you intend to conduct a more thorough examination of the remains once we have removed them?" Cromwell asks.

Butts nods, "Absolutely. I do not expect that I shall find much more than I have already, but nonetheless, I am keen to ensure that I miss nothing."

"Is there any sign of restraint?"

"Nothing immediately clear to my view, my Lord." Butts confirms, "Forgive me, but I must be certain." Again, he bends and carefully parts the bloodied legs, "There is no immediate sign of penetration, but I shall make a more thorough examination once she has been removed from here."

Sitting outside, Rich notes down everything in his speed-hand, placing his focus solely upon the words, rather than their import. Once more, he forgets to breathe through his mouth, and flinches at the smell, but then pauses and sniffs again. The cold has reduced the reek of the corpse considerably, and he can smell something else.

"You," he says to the guard, his voice considerably stronger now that he is concentrating on something other than his nausea, "Come over here."

Bemused, the youth complies. His face becomes even more nervous as Rich sniffs at him, before dismissing him and sniffing again. Then, apparently satisfied, he bends over his papers and scribbles again, "Vetiver." He mutters to himself, "And perhaps bergamot."

"Pardon?" Cromwell has appeared at the door and caught his comment.

"Vetiver." Rich looks up, "Can you not smell it?"

"I can smell only the corpse." Cromwell admits, "Why does it concern you?"

"Is it not a scent used primarily by men?" Rich asks, "And it is a lingering fragrance, though I know not how it has lingered so long. Are these chambers not generally the province of women? Perhaps the murderer used it to conceal the smell of the substances that would have covered him? For the fragrance to still be present, he must have used an extensive amount, though I believe it is as strong as it is lingering."

"I take it you have noted this observation?" Cromwell asks.

"I have."

"Good, we shall include it in our discussions. It cannot be said yet whether or not it is relevant, but it is better to note and discard later than ignore and discover it to have been the key to all." He pauses, "I smell it, too."

"Has Doctor Butts finished?" Rich asks.

"Not quite. I believe he is still measuring."

At length, Butts emerges, "Forgive my delay, Gentlemen." He says, holding a sheet of rough paper in his gloved hand, "I have made - as best I can - a sketch of the scene to indicate where all lies. I wish it were possible to record this more accurately, but unfortunately I lack a more precise measuring tool in order to establish proper scale."

Rich takes the paper, holding it at one corner with finger and thumb and his expression rather disgusted, "I shall take these to our investigation room."

"I shall see to the clearing of the chamber." Butts advises, "Once all is done, and the remains have been transported to an appropriately cool place, I shall join you."

Neither of the two men in the chamber are happy to be there again. While it has served as a useful hiding place during the upheavals of the autumn; that they have been forced to return it to its prior use again disturbs them both, for it indicates that the original death was not an isolated incident, planned or not.

While they wait for Doctor Butts to join them, Rich sits down and makes a start on transcribing the notes he has made. They are, as before, copious, for he has noted the discussion verbatim in his speed-hand; which means that neither Cromwell nor Butts shall be able to read them. As he does so, Cromwell examines the papers that remain upon the walls. Some more have fallen from the plaster, so he retrieves them and pins them to the wall again, his expression dark. Of all the things to have to come back to, this was the one he expected least.

When he turns back, he notices that Rich has stopped writing, and is sitting over the papers, rubbing at his forehead with his hand as though he has a headache, "Why did this have to happen?" he asks, quietly, "All we had to concern ourselves was Aske, and the King has him in hand. All was well until this."

Cromwell has no answer.

Butts joins them after a half hour or so, "I have set the corpse in a cool cellar," he advises, "I shall commence the post mortem - such as is possible - this afternoon."

With no means of reading Rich's notes, he has no choice but to read them out, which he manages to do without the same degree of discomfort as previously. From the evidence they have, there is little alternative but to assume that the same killer has acted, for all is too similar to the previous killing. The likelihood that a vein was opened upon the neck to render the victim unconscious quickly and keep them quiet. The savagery of the disfigurement and the evisceration, and the almost surgical precision of the removal of the womb.

"That makes no sense to me." Cromwell admits, "Why remove that one organ? What is so important about it?"

"It is the means to bear children." Butts muses, "Perhaps the murderer is unable to do so, or is unable to sire them?"

"It would help if we knew who the victim was." Rich adds, grimly, "Her identity might answer some of the questions we still have - perhaps they have something in common."

"I have made enquiries as to the identity of the individual who lodged in the chamber," Butts answers, "from that, I understand she may be a Miss Louise Knotte."

"Ah." Rich murmurs.

"Ah?" Cromwell asks.

"She has something of a reputation, Thomas." Rich advises, "As I understand it, the number of amours she had was quite extensive - and it included Sir Simon Paxton."

"Do we still consider him to be a suspect?" Butts asks, "I was obliged to tend to the aftermath of several fights in which he was involved."

"He also acted most intemperately during the festivities in the hall yesterday afternoon." Rich adds, "One of the Queen's ladies attempted to avoid his unwanted attentions, and he took offence at her doing so." He sounds doubtful, however.

Cromwell shakes his head, "I am not willing to reach such a conclusion at this stage, Richard. His reputation still involves the use of his fists - and he has done yet more to bolster that - but it does not involve the use of blades. Unless he shows me otherwise, I can only keep his name as a possible perpetrator, not a probable one."

"Then we must investigate the 'other amours'. Butts says, dryly.

The young woman in the chair looks at the two Courtiers with frightened eyes. She is merely a chambermaid, and has no idea why the Lord Privy Seal would want to talk to her, much less in a room set a few doors away from the King's Waiting Chamber - which she would never normally even approach.

Despite his hawk-like expression, Cromwell's voice is the soul of gentility, and he sits down alongside her, "You have nothing to fear from us, Miss Seaton. We seek only to know more about Miss Knotte."

She nods, but says nothing.

"How well did you know Miss Knotte?" he asks.

"Quite well, my Lord." She whispers, almost too afraid to speak any louder, and causing Rich to have to strain to hear her as he makes notes, "Despite her better station in life, she always talked to me, and she was very kind."

"Forgive me if my questions make you feel uncomfortable, or disloyal - I ask only for information, and nothing that you say to me in this room shall be spoken of outside it, except in the place where we are basing our investigation. I give you my word. All I ask of you is that you tell me the truth - not what you think I want to hear; only the truth."

She nods, "Yes, my Lord."

"Did Miss Knotte have many male friends?"

"Yes, my Lord. She saw many men - and she talked of them to me quite often, and showed me the gifts they gave her. She even gave me one of them - a pouch of coins - for my Ma was sick and we couldn't afford a doctor."

" A kind and generous mistress, then?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Who were the people she was seeing most recently?" Cromwell poses the question as delicately as he can.

Miss Seaton blushes, "Forgive me, my Lord - I do not know who all of them were, but she was, for a time, with Sir Simon Paxton. I think she was also seeing one of the Queen's Stewards until recently, but he was dismissed for a minor theft a few months ago. Most recently she was seeing Lord John Somerton."

"One of the Earl of Oxford's retinue?"

She nods again.

"Are you aware of anyone else?"

"No, my Lord."

He bows his head to her, "Thank you, Miss Seaton. You may go - you have been most helpful."

She rises, bobs a neat curtsey and departs.

"Lords and Stewards?" Rich asks, "I am not sure whether that would mean she is discriminating or not in terms of rank."

"I can only assume that rank was of no interest to her." Cromwell muses.

"Quality of the rutting, I suppose."

"Thank you, Mr Rich."

A note arrives from Butts as Rich is re-reading his notes, and he waits for Cromwell to finish reading it, "It seems that Miss Knotte - assuming the victim is she - likely died on Christmas night, though he cannot be certain of that thanks to the cooler weather. He has no further information to add other than he did indeed find evidence of a man's seed within her. She was therefore with a man prior to her death; but, again, it is not possible to determine whether he was merely an amour, or her killer."

"Shall we summon Lord Somerton?" Rich asks, "I think he is about the Court somewhere."

It turns out that he is indeed about the Court, but the Steward sent to fetch him returns alone, "He refused to come, my Lord."

Cromwell looks bemused, "His Majesty has ordered the Court to co-operate with our investigation - thus he is obliged to do so. It is not my order, but that of the King."

"I shall fetch him." Rich volunteers, "It shall be less embarrassing if he refuses to comply with my request than yours." He looks across at the Steward, "Where did you find him?"

"He was in the Waiting Chamber, my Lord."

Like Paxton, Somerton is something of a peacock, his clothing just short of violating the required dress code of the Court. His wealth comes more from commerce than from property, but nonetheless he wears his Barony like a mantle of pride, and views the Gentry-born Rich with not-entirely-undeserved contempt, "What do you want?"

"It is the King's demand that all at Court comply with the requirements of the investigation being undertaken in relation to the recent deaths. Thus, in refusing to speak to us, you are directly violating the order of the King." He keeps his voice low. There is, after all, only so much humiliation he can accept in public.

"Then send someone of the appropriate rank to talk to me." Somerton spits back, "I shall have nothing to do with a baseborn nobody who has been elevated above his natural station."

Rich decides to opt for a veiled threat, "I should add that your refusal to speak to us could, in some quarters, be viewed as an admission of culpability." Again, he does not raise his voice, and neither does Somerton as he leans in rather closer than Rich would like, "Believe what you like, Sir Richard," he hisses, "I am of higher rank even than you, Privy Councillor or no. That black raven Cromwell is of insufficient worth to speak to me, or to be spoken to by me. Thus I shall not do as you demand." Without another word, he brushes past Rich, and leaves the Chamber. Rich rolls his eyes.

"I think he does not like you, Sir Richard." The woman's voice is mildly amused, and he turns to see Lady Anne Beauchamp, sitting on a small banquette nearby.

"No one likes me, my Lady." He says, with surprising cheerfulness, "I think it is my charmless nature."

She raises an eyebrow, surprised, perhaps, at his humour, "It may interest you to know," she adds, more confidentially, "that Louise Knotte was, until recently, his mistress - but he dropped her in favour of another woman recently come to Court. I am told that she prevailed upon him most piteously to accept her back again on Christmas Night - though he was with his new paramour even as she did so. I can only imagine that she must have been in drink to have been so brazen. He refused her with much spite, I believe - and spent the time that he should have been at the Mass engaged in a far baser activity with his new partner."

"Is that so?" Rich asks, more confidentially.

"So I am told." Lady Anne confirms, "Though, naturally, I could not be so crude as to reveal my source."

Cromwell is not pleased, "I do not wish to have to go to the King again." He sighs, "Lord Somerton's behaviour is thoroughly unhelpful. I cannot supplant a witness statement with gossip."

Even though that was exactly what we did with Anne Boleyn? Rich thinks to himself, but does not say so out loud, "I can make another attempt?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "No. I think not. I shall give him a few days to cool his temper and try again - though I think we should do what we can to substantiate that which Lady Beauchamp told you. While it would seem that neither man can vouch for their whereabouts, for neither - I believe from what little comment I have been able to overhear - were at the Midnight Mass, I cannot find a strong motive in either to do what was done to the women who have died. No, Richard; despite all, we are no further forward."

Gathering his papers, Rich does not comment. Instead, he opts to return his notes to the investigation room and transcribe them in the morning. As though he does not have enough work to do. As he walks, he makes a mental note of all that must be done on the morrow, both in terms of their investigation, and in terms of his more proper work. After a moment, he stops, and realises that he is outside the chamber where Louise Knotte died. Even though it has now been cleaned, he still opts to open the door and look inside.

There is nothing now. No bloodstains on the floor, though there are scrubbing marks upon the walls and the carpet that was covered in blood and fluids has been rolled up and removed.

Then he sniffs again, and finds he can still smell it.

There is still vetiver in the air.