CHAPTER NINE

A Virgin Sacrifice

The news has spread very quickly, leaving people rather subdued. Not at the identity of the victim, for her reputation was extraordinarily sullied even in a court where illicit sexual liaisons are hardly unknown, but for the fact that someone, somewhere, has acted with such hideous violence - and none know who it might be. Suspicions are rife, particularly amongst the lower level Courtiers, who are too numerous to know everyone about them by sight, and the Constable is most vexed, for he has been obliged to intervene in a number of arguments which have threatened to become fights.

"Matters are beginning to get out of hand, my Lord," he complains to Cromwell, who is reading some of Rich's transcribed notes in their investigation room, "though I suspect that the majority of incidents are being caused by those who have other scores to settle."

"In much the same manner as those who provided unsolicited written statements after the death of Anne Hamme." Cromwell muses, lifting another sheaf of similar papers relating to Louise Knotte, "I am not sure which was worse - the wall of silence, or this deluge of spite."

"Some of the King's Minions are spoiling for fights," the Constable continues, "I attempted to speak to Sir Francis Bryan, for he seems to be very much at the forefront of their activities; but he rebuffed me."

Cromwell sighs, "Then I shall try. I do not suspect him - not at this time - but he is known to me, and his understanding of this Court's underbelly is unrivalled. He may have seen or heard of incidents that are of use to our investigation."

"Do not be surprised if he strikes you, my Lord."

"And claim himself to be an equal of his Majesty?" Cromwell's eyebrow rises sardonically, "I doubt it."

The atmosphere in the small room they have largely claimed for their interviews is odd: neither laden nor brittle. Rich is seated at the table again, his quill charged with ink, while Sir Francis Bryan examines his fingernails with a slightly bored air that tinges close to ill temper. His expression is neutral, though from the angle at which Rich is viewing it, he cannot tell exactly, as Bryan's face is obscured partly by his impressive black beard, and partly by the eyepatch that hides his jousting injury.

"Did you know Louise Knotte?" Cromwell asks.

"Who did not?" Bryan smirks, "I am surprised that she did not find her way into your bed, my Lord."

Rich nearly chokes. Cromwell, on the other hand, smiles benignly, "And you think I have the time for such trifles?" he tuts, and shakes his head, as though amused at the very idea, "How…well…did you know her?"

"What - did I fuck her?" Bryan asks, his expression roguish, "God, no. She was ridden by so many she should have lived in the stables with the other mares. I have no wish to risk the pox: I do, after all, have standards to maintain."

"So I am given to understand." Cromwell says, dryly, before continuing, "Who else was she seeing, then?"

"It would be easier to give you a list of who she wasn't seeing."

Cromwell rolls his eyes, "I take it she was well known to your general circle?"

"Extremely, my Lord." Bryan grins.

"What about Miss Anne Hamme?"

The grin vanishes, "What about her?"

"Could you advise me of your whereabouts in July?"

"Of course. I was away from Court. On Court business. I am sure that you can verify that easily enough. You did, after all, dispatch me to undertake it."

Cromwell nods: he remembers, "And on Christmastide Eve and Day?"

"I was in the Lock-up." He shrugs, "I overindulged. Extensively."

"Where?"

"Cheapside. Where else?"

"I thought you were intent on avoiding the pox?"

"Perhaps I should take you there, my Lord." Bryan drawls, "Then you might learn that there are taverns in the area, as much as whorehouses. Like I said. I have standards to maintain."

Cromwell regards Bryan, a little tiredly. Annoying though the rogue is, he is capable and largely careful in his dealings with people. Not a man given to uncontrolled violence, though he is hardly a peaceable creature, either. His demeanour is not defensive, or nervous. He clearly has nothing to hide, either that or he is far more brazen than Cromwell is giving him credit for; no, he is not the killer.

"Thank you, Sir Francis. I have no further questions."

Bryan rises, and bows floridly, "Such a pity. I was quite enjoying myself, my Lord - it has been a long time since I was last considered so bloodthirsty. Thank you for thinking of me. I shall see myself out."

Rich stares at him, bemused, as he departs, "Was he serious?"

"Completely." Cromwell says, "It was worth speaking to him to see if he might add some further insights - but he is rather too guarded for that. Even though I am well aware that all of the Minions despise Paxton, there is still some loyalty of a kind amongst them, it seems."

Rich shrugs, "Do you intend to speak to anyone else, Thomas? If not, I shall set to work transcribing this."

With the year's end fast approaching, the mood at Court quickly begins to change, with the grim events over Christmastide hastily forgotten in the new opportunity to celebrate, eat, drink and dance. Queen Jane has, again, been quietly persuasive, prompting her mercurial husband to invite his second daughter - hitherto not his at all - back to Court for the last stages of the Christmastide festivities. Her retinue arrived this morning, and already there are problems, for the child is to lodge not in quarters of her own, but in those set aside for Mary, thus obliging her to make room for not only a young girl, but also her ladies, too.

Despite herself, Mary is not willing to show her anger at the child; after all, it is hardly her fault, any more than it was Elizabeth's fault that the woman that Mary still calls 'the Concubine' demanded that she be little better than a servant to her younger sister. Instead, she reserves her bile for her half-brother, who is still riding high, and peacocking it at his father's side.

Henry has not returned to his statement before Christmas that the Court shall have a new prince by this time; but still he lauds his bastard son as though he is the Second Coming of the Christ, which both expands Fitzroy's already puffed-up esteem, and sets Mary to glowering. Elizabeth, despite her youth, is not blind to such undercurrents, and sits very quietly indeed beside her older sister. With all the Court about them, all dressed in their finest, the entire scene almost glistens as the jewels, silks and satins reflect the multitude of candles. Seated to Fitzroy's right, still feted as he was when he arrived, Aske stares in wonder at the magnificence all around him - perhaps he has forgotten to be scandalised at the sheer degree of wealth that is on display.

The King seems quite oblivious to the enmity between his two oldest children, welcoming all to the last great feast of the old year, and the celebrations that shall bring in the new. Despite herself, Mary smiles as she is cheered by all, and grips her younger sister's hand in warm solidarity, for she has clearly noticed Elizabeth is unnerved by her behaviour.

As he watches them, Cromwell again feels some sympathy for the put-upon child of the discarded Queen Katherine - who she never saw again once the marriage had been declared null and void. The price she has paid to secure her father's love is a cruel one, for she has all the fierce pride of her Spanish mother, as well as the solid Catholic Popishness that he has spent so long quietly undermining, and she has been required to all but repudiate both in order to be welcomed back into the Court where once she had been so warmly loved. And now Elizabeth is obliged to play the same game - despite being less than five years old. God forbid that I could ever have treated my little girls so, he thinks to himself, sadly, and wonders if their loss so young might have saved them from something like this. He is not the man he was then. Not by half.

As all around them feast, chatter and dance, Cromwell knows that Rich is fidgeting, and wants more than anything to be elsewhere. Given her disfigurement, his mistress never appears in public if she can avoid it, so he cannot spend time with her. He regards his colleague for a moment, his keen eyes reading Rich almost like an open book, and again marvels at the fact that someone so utterly focused upon his own welfare could have found it in himself to love another - and not only that, but someone who does not enhance his standing at Court, for Kathryn most certainly does not.

Entirely unaware of Cromwell's scrutiny, Rich watches the dancers rather sourly, wishing both that he could remember steps of a dance as easily as he remembers other things, and that Kat could join the dance, too. Where else could they spend time openly in public? But he cannot dance, and she cannot bear to be watched, so instead he must sit to the side, watch and regret. No one will miss him if he leaves; surely…

The King laughs, loudly and delightedly as Fitzroy leans in close to him, presumably imparting some joke or other. Beside her husband, Jane smiles politely, though without the amusement Henry displays. Perhaps the comment was in poor taste - for the King quite enjoys such humour. Further to the left, Mary scowls, and Cromwell knows then Fitzroy has said something that is amusing only to one such as the King. Either that, or Henry is so enamoured of his son that he would laugh at even the most base of insults.

With one hour of the old year remaining, Rich is becoming so obviously keen to depart that Cromwell takes him to one side, "Do not leave too hastily." He says, quietly, "Then none should notice your departure."

Surprised at Cromwell's sympathetic assistance, Rich nods, "Thank you, my Lord." He bows and slips away.

She is waiting for him in one of the quieter courts, under a colonnade, for a light snow has begun to fall to welcome in the new year, "Are you not cold?" he asks, concerned that she has been waiting for longer than he would have liked.

"Not at all." Kat says, though he cannot see her expression behind her veil, "I am well wrapped, and this snow is delightfully pretty."

"I, however, am not." Rich says, as the crowded Hall was very warm, and he has no cloak to keep the chill at bay, "Would you like to return to my quarters, or shall I fetch a cloak?"

She turns to him, "I shall go with you, I think." The sound of laughter heralds a group of people invading their quiet space, and she is happy to leave the court to them, "How was it in the Hall?"

"Strained, dull and odd." Rich admits, as they walk together, "The King is determined to forget that two women are horribly murdered, and requires all to do the same for the night. Mary is feeling the barbs of her wounded pride, Elizabeth is uncertain of the ground upon which she stands, and Fitzroy's already over-large head is growing by the minute. In some ways, he is very much like his father."

Kat laughs, "In other ways, too. How long has he been married now?"

Rich stares at her, surprised, "He is but seventeen, Kat - thus he was barely more than a child when he wed. Why should it be no surprise that his wife is not yet with child?" He guides her into his chambers, and she removes her veil as he closes the door.

"More than that, Richie," she says, "As I hear it, the marriage is not even consummated. Hardly a case of 'like father, like son' if he has not yet tupped his wife."

"That sounds very crude." Rich smiles.

"It does, doesn't it? But then, we are hardly in the same position, are we?" Kat says, and kisses him as the clock strikes midnight, "Happy new year, my love."

"Happy new year." He whispers back.

The snow continues to fall for several days, on and off, coating the Palace in a pristine sheet of white that begs to be rumpled at the first opportunity. Even the most staid of Courtiers are hard put to avoid the childish excitement of the thick snow, while the younger members of the Court soak themselves in melted snowballs from pitched running battles that last for hours with such endless ammunition within easy reach.

For Cromwell, however, there are no such japes. Instead, he is sitting with the King in the Privy Chamber, reading through the list of names of those of note who have stood with Aske in open rebellion against his Majesty. He avoids sighing aloud as he does so; for none of the people here believe themselves to be acting against the good of the Kingdom. From their demands, they believe that he has lost his way, and all that they intend is to help him find it again. That their King refuses to be wrong in anything is a matter of which they are radiantly, innocently, unaware.

Asks himself has departed the Court, laden with good wishes and well victualled for his journey north. His expression is friendly, for he believes that he has reached his King's heart, and all shall be mended. The fact that the Lord Privy Seal is sitting in the Privy Chamber, and not in the Tower, has not, it seems, dented this belief. Perhaps he believes that Lord Cromwell has also seen whatever light it is that Aske expects him to see.

"Look at it, my Lord." Henry spits, furiously, "Just look at it! A list so long - each and every one of them a damned bloody traitor!"

"Yes, Majesty." If he were to be truly honest with himself, he knows that they are not - but if it is his life against theirs, he knows who he shall choose to survive.

"Aske had better get them under control, Cromwell. If not, I shall hang the bastard from the walls of York! Or I might anyway. I will not be treated so, damn them all to hell! Who do they think they are, dictating to me in such manner?"

Cromwell thinks of the twenty-four articles, and feels relieved that Henry is so keen to dismiss them - particularly article eight.

"How are we to proceed, Majesty?" He asks, for it is clear that Henry is not interested in anyone dictating to him at the moment - not even his Lord Privy Seal.

"Ensure that this is in the hands of Norfolk as soon as you may. Make sure that your messenger is trustworthy."

The only person I would trust with this is myself. Cromwell thinks, but nods, "Yes Majesty."

"Then I shall see how Norfolk treats it, for I am not convinced that he is as much an enemy of these traitors as he claims."

Again, Cromwell does not comment. Not if it can ensure that Norfolk's stock is lowered in the King's eyes; the so-called 'Pilgrims' are nothing like as great a threat to him as Thomas Howard.

"Bloody Aske had better make sure his filthy burghers go home, or God help the lot of them." Henry growls, "I shall make them all weep blood, in gallons if need be. I shall wade in it if I must to ensure that they remember their damned place!"

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell says, again keeping the sigh out of his voice. With a wave of his hand, the King dismisses him, and he returns to the offices, both relieved, and guilt-ridden. Yes - Liz would despise him nowadays.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he does not notice at first that Rich is standing beside his desk, looking grim, or that the Constable is nearby, grey-complexioned again.

"What?" he asks, startled out of his reverie.

"Forgive me, my Lord." The Constable says, but Rich continues, "There's another one."

"Jesu have mercy." Cromwell sighs, looking at the appalling scene in the chamber, "How can another have died so soon? It must have been five months between the first two. What in God's name is happening?"

"This year seems to have begun under a most dark star, my Lord." Doctor Butts agrees as he dons his leather gauntlets again, "I cannot fathom who would do this, or why."

The room is rather better in aspect than those of the previous two victims, in that it has a main chamber and a bed chamber. The body itself lies within the bedchamber, disrobed, disfigured and eviscerated like the others - and again with one small organ carefully excised and set aside the corpse.

"The room is bigger," Butts observes, "which has prevented the blood from spattering across the walls - but…" he pauses to take measurements, "It has still travelled a considerable distance, which suggests that the victim was alive when a vein was opened - possibly in the neck, for there is an incision here: much like the one that I found upon the corpse of Anne Hamme - though the throat was too damaged for me to find one on Louise Knotte." He points, and Cromwell leans down to look.

"Based upon the footprints, I should say that there was more than one person present, though it may be that only one was in the room to perform the killing. I cannot say for certain." He turns, "Sir Richard, has any matter been trodden out of the bedchamber?"

There is a moment of silence, "None." Rich reports back, "Though I can smell Vetiver again."

Cromwell looks up, surprised, for he has missed it. Stepping away from the malodorous corpse, he stands in the doorway and sniffs carefully. Rich is right - there is a fragrance, though he does not use Vetiver, and thus does not recognise it for the scent that Rich claims it to be.

"I am not an observer of fashion, Gentlemen," Butts says, "But, from the clothing, I should say that this woman does not appear to fit the same description as the others. Her garments seem much finer, and in far better repair."

"I should say the same from the rooms in which she lies." Cromwell adds, "These rooms are for Courtiers of better means than Miss Hamme or Miss Knotte." He frowns, bemused, "I shall enquire as to whom these chambers were assigned."

Butts continues his examination and measuring. As with Louise Knotte, he sets out some paper and, with charcoal, carefully attempts to sketch out the room as he sees it, using his measuring rope to aid him. As he busies himself, Cromwell joins Rich, who is still listening for comments to note down.

"I think you are becoming used to these scenes." He observes, "I have not heard you retch once."

"I should prefer that they stop, Thomas." Rich grunts, "I would rather not be 'becoming used' to them."

Leaving Butts to organise the removal of the body, and the cleaning of the rooms, the pair make their way back to the investigation room, where Rich immediately sits down to begin transcribing. After an hour's diligent work, he has more papers to place upon the wall with the others, while Cromwell has sought, and found, the identity of the tenant of the rooms.

"If the woman is the one to whom the rooms were assigned, then her name was Sarah Culver." He reports, "I know little of her. Perhaps Miss Silverton could help us with this?"

"I shall ask her." Rich promises.

"Sarah?" Kat says, shocked, "But that seems impossible! She was nothing like either Anne or Louise - she had no amours, and refused all who tried."

"Did you know her?" Rich asks.

"Not well, for she preferred to avoid me." Kat admits, as she sits down beside him, "She was very guarded of her virtue - quite prudish in fact. I think she disliked me not because of my face, but because of my activities - for she intended to keep herself solely for a husband. But then," She says, more bitterly, "she had sufficient funds to do so."

"Was she at Court for any particular reason?"

"She originally came here to join the Queen's Ladies - but that fell away after Queen Anne was removed. I think there were plans for her to enter Queen Jane's service, for one of her present ladies is due to marry and shall depart to her husband's estate when she does so. I don't think that she would have enjoyed being one of Queen Jane's ladies - it would have meant she would no longer have been free to indulge her passion for pious retreats."

"Retreats? Did she visit religious houses?"

Kat shakes her head, "No, Richie - she merely closeted herself in her rooms and undertook what she always referred to as 'personal devotions'." Her expression becomes sceptical, "We thought she just kept salacious poetry in her rooms and touched herself."

"Kat!" Rich looks shocked.

"Perhaps she didn't." Kat shrugs, then turns to him, "It was very hard for us to like her, Richie. She kept herself very aloof, and seemed quite convinced that she was morally superior to all of us - for she had no understanding of how it is to live at Court without money."

"When did you last see her?"

"Some days ago." Kat says, "I assumed that she had gone into one of her seclusions again; we all did, for she was inclined to do so with little warning, and for several days at a time."

Rich sighs. That, and the cold, means that it shall be nigh on impossible to determine the day upon which she died.

"I must sound terrible." Kat murmurs, a little guiltily, "She is dead, and I accuse her of immoral behaviour."

Rich takes her hand, "I should rather you told me the truth as you see it, rather than that which you think I wish to hear. It may be that she did read salacious poetry. We have not searched her rooms, so I cannot verify one way or the other."

"What a pity." She smiles, "If there had been, I should have been quite delighted for you to read them to me."

Rich reddens with embarrassment, and she laughs.

Cromwell is bemused, "Miss Culver was virtuous?"

"Completely and utterly." Rich confirms, "Or, at least, as far as could be determined in a place where no secret stays so for long. Apparently the rest of the Court women were most amused by it."

"Then one of our motives has been taken from us." He complains, "The two previous victims were, to some degree or other, promiscuous - but she was not."

"She is, however, still a woman." Rich quips, earning a glare.

Butts has provided his notes of the post mortem, which - as with the others - does little more than confirm his initial assessment. That, too, is now tacked to a wall that is becoming liberally papered.

"What of our suspects?" Rich asks, setting yet more papers down on the table.

Cromwell scowls, "Worse still. Neither has been at court since the turn of the year."

"Are you sure?" Rich looks dismayed.

"I am." Cromwell sighs, "From my enquiries, both men departed before the last time that Miss Culver was seen alive. Paxton was banished from court on only the second day of the year."

"Ah, yes - there was a brawl on new year's day, was there not?" Rich agrees, "I was occupied elsewhere when that happened."

Cromwell rolls his eyes, while he does not know what Rich was doing, he can guess, "A man was stabbed, Richard - and while Paxton did not hold the blade, he did spark the fracas, while in the presence of some of the higher Privy Councillors. It was inevitable that it would happen sooner or later. The only surprising thing is that it took as long as it did for him to cross that line."

"And what of Somerton?"

"Much less energetic. He was merely away from Court to oversee some business transactions on his property. He has not yet returned." Cromwell says.

"So we have no suspects again."

"None. We must recommence our questioning."

"My joy knows no bounds."

Questioning the Minions proves to be a pointless affair, as none of them are willing to cooperate to any degree of use. Despite being amongst the most prolific of the Court rakes, not one of them seems to remember anything of value, and each of their colleagues has developed an almost monastic devotion to chastity. A new year's resolution, no doubt.

"I suspect you may need to ask Miss Silverton again." Cromwell grumbles, crossly.

"Or perhaps we could try one of Miss Culver's friends?" Rich suggests, "I assume she had some - even if she was as tiresome as Ka…Miss Silverton suggests."

After an hour, and some discreet enquiries, Cromwell has found someone who may be able to help them, though she looks at him with a strange combination of apprehension and snobbish loathing. Lady Mary Scrope is as aware of the Lord Privy Seal's base-born status as anyone of noble blood.

"Forgive our inconveniencing you, my Lady." He begins, the soul of courtesy and gentility, "I would not wish to have done this if there were any other course."

She glares at him, but says nothing.

"I believe you were a friend of the late Miss Culver?" He tries, hoping that this might elicit a response.

"I was." She says, almost grudgingly.

"I understand that she was of a most virtuous bent, and thus avoided the kinds of entanglements that seem somewhat rife here at Court."

"She most certainly was." Lady Mary is indignant, "She knew the touch of no man, for her maidenhead belonged solely to her husband - to be given to him on their wedding night - not that that stopped some of them. Vile creatures that they are!"

"She was accosted by men?"

"On occasions, yes. Most recently by that ghastly man Neville."

"Sir Edward Neville?" Cromwell prompts.

"That very man; yes. He seemed quite determined to take her virtue for himself - and she was obliged on more than one occasion to seek assistance from men of higher rank to put him off."

Cromwell frowns, "That is indeed disgraceful. I am appalled at such behaviour; though I am given to understand that his reputation is a most unpleasant one."

"Indeed it is, my Lord! Most dreadful!" Suddenly, in granting her the opportunity to speak ill of another, he seems to have opened a set of floodgates, "His reputation is as soiled as the worst sinner in Christendom! For he seeks out women - and they flock to him, for he gives them the most lavish gifts in payment for their sins!"

She seems set to continue for at least another hour, so Cromwell stops her as politely as he can - largely to ensure that Rich does not run out of paper or ink, "Thank you, my Lady. I can assure you that we shall treat your statement in the strictest confidence - and we shall assuredly question Sir Edward."

Lady Mary is still speaking even as he ushers her out, and when he closes the door, he leans upon it, in case she decides to come back in, "God above - I thought she would be hard to question. Instead she was hard to stop."

"We do, at least, have another name to try." Rich observes, going back over his notes, "She is right about him, though. I am aware of his reputation, for he seems quite proud of it; in his mind, all women are fair game for him - he considers all women to be little better than whores put upon this earth for his personal entertainment."

"I loathe him already."

After ten minutes in the company of Sir Edward Neville, Cromwell's loathing has turned to outright disgust; not so much at the man's reputation, but at his sheer cowardice in the face of the glaring Lord Privy Seal.

"I didn't kill the woman, my Lord." He blusters, rather fearfully, despite being far more burly than Cromwell and likely equally capable of knocking him down if he chose to do so, "She wouldn't let me near her - so…"

"So perhaps you sought revenge?" Cromwell asks.

"No, my Lord - absolutely not! I abandoned the chase, for she took to surrounding herself with ladies of high birth - I knew my bolt was shot, so I set my sights elsewhere - I swear it!" Christ above, Rich stares at him, astonished, he's sweating.

Cromwell leans in, fearfully close, "And can you advise me of your whereabouts in late July of last year?" his voice is low: deadly.

Neville looks panic-stricken, "No, my Lord - I cannot recall! It is near on six months past! How can I be expected to remember my movements so far in the past?"

"And what of Christmastide?"

"I was away from Court! I swear it! You can ask anyone - I returned to my estate!"

If he is disappointed at this news, Cromwell does not show it, "And what of the last week?"

"How can I account for all my movements over so many days, my Lord?" The man is trembling, "But I know someone else who was trying to secure her as a mistress! It was not merely I - for Sir Nicholas Carew was also intent upon her, we thought her to be a challenge - and he knew the other one, Louise - she gave him a pox of some sort, I think, so he has reason to hate her!"

His eyes narrowed almost to slits, Cromwell indicates that the man leave with a sharp nod towards the door, a look that he maintains even as the cowardly minion flees.

"God's wounds," Rich comments, "and I thought that I was a vile creature. I think he could give me lessons."

Cromwell turns and smirks, then looks outside the door for a Steward, "Could you fetch in Sir Nicholas Carew, please."

Carew, when he joins them, turns out to be a remarkably ugly, rat-faced individual with bad teeth and no sense of decorum in terms of dress. His eyes narrow, darting between the two men before him, and he sits reluctantly.

"Sir Nicholas." Cromwell acknowledges.

"Who dropped my name in here, Cromwell?" Carew spits back at once, "Who was it?"

"I am not at liberty to say." Cromwell responds, icily, "Suffice to say that it is I who shall be asking the questions in this room."

"I shall answer none if you do not tell me who gave you my name."

"Then I shall wait until you do. We can see who needs the jakes first."

Carew glares. He was not expecting such a response.

"I understand that you have been attempting to secure the late Sarah Culver as your mistress. Is that the case?"

"Yes. She wouldn't have that jackanapes Neville, so I thought I'd bait a hook and see if she bit it."

"And she did not." It is not a question.

"God knows why."

Cromwell can think of plenty of reasons why, but chooses not to comment, "And what of Anne Hamme?"

"Nothing. Never had anything to do with her."

"Louise Knotte?"

"Little bitch gave me a pox."

"And you felt it appropriate, perhaps, to chastise her in some way?"

"God-damn you, Cromwell. I didn't kill the stupid little whore - someone else got there first. Besides, I was away from Court. Try and hold me responsible for that if you can. I can prove I wasn't here."

"And can you prove your whereabouts between the last time that Miss Culver was seen and the discovery of her corpse?"

"You try and remember everything you did for however long that was. I don't know when she was last seen, so how am I supposed to account for my every move for however long you want? Do you want me to detail every shit I had? Every fuck?"

"Be careful what you offer me, Sir Nicholas." Cromwell advises, casually, "I might take up that offer." He flicks his eyes towards the door, dismissing Carew as rudely as the Minion greeted him. Without another word, Carew departs.

"What did you think of him?" Cromwell asks Rich, who is finishing the last of his notes.

"I thought he was worse than Neville - though I must reserve judgement on whether he killed anyone."

Cromwell shakes his head, "He was not at court when Louise Knotte died. I can take steps to confirm it, but I doubt that I would be told otherwise."

"Perhaps he took advantage of the murder in his absence?" Rich offers, "Killed Miss Culver in the same way?" He pauses, "No - perhaps not. He would have needed help - I doubt he has the wit to ensure that there was nothing on his shoes when he left. All was too similar to the previous killings."

"And so we are no further forward." Cromwell sighs.

"I think we are further forward in one respect." Rich advises, "I have run out of paper."

By the end of the day, Rich has transcribed all of his notes in his impeccable hand, and yet more papers decorate the walls of the Chamber. He looks up as Cromwell returns, "Remarkably, Sir Nicholas Carew has managed to get himself banished from Court."

"I imagine that took very little skill on his part." Rich says, setting his quill into a pot, "He seems able to offend people with so little effort. Who did he offend this time?"

"The King."

Rich stares, "And he still has his liberty?"

"It came to his Majesty's attention that Mr Carew had been making rather off-colour jokes at her Majesty's expense. While he has no proof of it, implication is sufficient, and he demanded Carew's immediate departure - never to return. I suspect that no amount of time shall reverse that."

"Perhaps we should hope, then, that he is the murderer. If he is, then there shall be no more deaths."

Cromwell nods, "And we shall finally have a suspect."