CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Woman with the Screeching Laugh
As spring passes on into summer, the need to leave Whitehall is becoming urgent, for the stench of the river, coupled with the stink of middens around the Palace itself, has reached unendurable levels. With the King's apartments at Hampton Court under extensive refurbishment, the only other option at this time of the year is the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich, and so his Majesty decrees that this is the palace to which the court shall remove. He could go on progress, but seems not to be interested in doing so. Perhaps he does not wish to make himself freely available to his people in the bloody aftermath of the risings.
Either way, Cromwell is irked, for all Privy Councillors are still expected to attend meetings on a daily basis, thereby obliging them all to uproot and move as well. That his offices are based at Whitehall is immaterial, and so he is obliged to ensure that as many office functions are transported downriver as possible. While there are staff already in place at Placentia, most of the clerks shall have to travel as well, so he has Wriothesley organising them into teams to pack up what must be removed, while he presses Rich into helping him pack up the papers that they have accumulated in their investigation room.
"Do you have somewhere in mind at Placentia for all of this?" Rich asks, as he carefully tips tacks back into the tin pot.
Stacking papers into the coffers he has set aside, Cromwell nods, "I took care to ensure that there were suitable chambers available in all of the likely places to which we would be obliged to remove. I was expecting to be going to Hampton Court - but with the King's apartments unavailable he shall have to make do with Placentia. That is likely to irk him - Hampton is his preferred summer Palace."
As they work, all about them are packing, organising or making arrangements to go elsewhere. As Whitehall is one of the largest of Henry's palaces, there are some who cannot be accommodated at Placentia, for it is somewhat smaller, and thus they must either find alternative housing nearby, or simply go back to their estates. As the Countess of Oxford is not one such person, Kat shall be moving, too - which pleases Rich, for her presence at court is largely at the whim of her mistress, and, had her Grace opted to return to her estates, he would be quite bereft.
"She nearly did." Kat advises him as they sup, later that evening, "Her Grace despises Placentia, but she felt it would be better for all if she remained, for she has hopes of being named as a godparent to the new royal child - something that could become rather unlikely if she is not at Court in the coming months."
"And you are content to be stuck at court in the hot weather?" Rich asks, "Why not leave? It cannot be comfortable under that veil if you are in public."
"I could not leave." She says simply, and reaches across to take his hand. No indeed, she could not, and he is grateful for it.
Those papers which must be transported are now aboard two large barges, with the Clerks who are to go with them also aboard. Wriothesley is guarding the keys, and sits almost regally in the stern of the leading barge as the oarsmen push away from the Privy steps. With the river reeking as it does, his apparently privileged position is less than it appears, as his rather disgusted expression, and the presence of a strongly scented kerchief at his nose testifies to Cromwell, who remains on the jetty as he shall make the journey on horseback; an altogether more pleasant prospect in terms of aroma once one is across London Bridge.
Those of lesser import are always the first to remove, as are those who make life easier for the higher-born. The entire move shall take more than ten days, with so many people, and so much baggage, to transfer from one end of London to the other. Those who are prepared to endure the sewage-tinged stink of the river shall hire barges. Others shall travel by road. Cromwell might prefer to make the journey by river, for it is somewhat quicker, and more comfortable - if one has access to scented items to keep the stench at bay - but he has much to think about, and so he requires the longer journey time to accommodate his brain-work.
Rich, on the other hand, is not remotely impressed to be expected to do the same thing. He is, at best, an indifferent horseman, and the idea of spending most of a day in the saddle is not pleasant.
"We have much to discuss, Richard." Cromwell advises him, firmly, "And some of it requires at least a modicum of privacy. We have few opportunities to achieve such a level of freedom from prying ears - I intend to make the most of it."
They depart two days later, as the shadows are starting to shorten in the early morning. The day promises to be very warm, and already Rich is squirming slightly under the cloak that decorum demands that he wear over his thick doublet. As they make their way down the Strand, he regards the men working in their shirtsleeves with envious eyes.
"Does Wriothesley have the papers from our investigations?" he asks, attempting to forget how hot he is becoming.
Cromwell nods, "But I have the keys to the coffers. He knows to ensure that they are placed in the chamber I have set aside for our use." His expression darkens, "But I have still not the first idea where all of this leads us. None of the men that have seemed most likely to be suspects have turned out to be so."
"The killer has gone to remarkable lengths to remain hidden." Rich agrees, "To the degree, it seems, that he attends his victims with a set of clean shoes, and - one assumes - a set of clean clothes. From the state of the corpses, if Doctor Butts is to be believed, he should have left that chamber looking like a Slaughterman."
"And there seems to be no motive." Cromwell adds, speculatively, "I had thought that it might be that the women involved, thanks to their promiscuity, had invited the killer into their midst - but it now seems not to be so, for what of Miss Culver? She was known amongst the women for her refusal to engage in any illicit activity - of any kind. Thus the motive is invalid."
"Perhaps not." Rich says, "For was she not regularly accosted by men seeking a liaison? Neville did say, did he not, that he and Carew had considered claiming her virtue to have become something of a competition between them. Perhaps that was sufficient in the mind of the one who killed her. It is, after all, seen to be the prerogative of a man to bed any woman he wishes, against the expectation that a woman must be chaste." His tone is rather sardonic - for, after all, he is speaking very much of his own behaviour.
"In which case," Cromwell muses, "All women at court are at risk - not merely those who are free with their attentions; though it seems likely that those who seek out more frequent liaisons and amours are in the most danger. But - if Carew is responsible - then the danger is past."
"Let us hope that he is."
By midday, the sun is high, and the warmth is unpleasant. Having made the journey on regular occasions, Cromwell has an inn in mind where they can rest and eat; which is just as well, as he notices that Rich is starting to wilt under the layers of warm clothing that he is wearing. Cromwell is better at endurance than his colleague, having fought in wars in his youth; but he has also been rather more discriminating in his choice of garments, which are of considerably thinner fabrics despite their black hue.
The inn is set well south of the city, and resides alongside the small river Peck. Leaving their horses in the shade of an awning, both men are grateful for the cold ale from the inn's cellars, and Cromwell sits patiently as Rich peels off the excessive garments until he is down to his shirt.
"Perhaps you should bathe in the stream." He says, blandly.
"I am tempted." Rich admits, mopping at his face with a kerchief.
The heat of the afternoon is equally unpleasant, settling over the countryside like a thick blanket as they cross the Ravensbourne and enter the parkland that surrounds Placentia. Conversation died some time ago, and Cromwell is becoming quite concerned at Rich, who is drooping, red-faced and silent. He hopes to himself that his colleague is not going to faint and fall out of his saddle, and ensures that he is close by, in case he must catch hold of Rich's cloak.
Once safely in the stable yard, oblivious to the stares of the grooms, he bustles Rich across to one of the water troughs, where he soaks a kerchief in water, "Here - this is good and cold. Wrap it about your neck and sit in the shade awhile. I shall send for your manservant."
"Next time." Rich mumbles, "I shall travel by barge."
Leaving his indisposed colleague with his manservant, Cromwell makes his way to the room that he has set aside for the investigation. Wriothesley, with his usual brisk efficiency, has already ensured that the locked coffers have been delivered, so it is a simple matter to unlock them and retrieve the papers upon which he had hastily scribbled something of an index. Statements in this coffer, Observations and reports in this other one, interviews in that one over there…
There are too many papers to set about tacking them to walls again - not on his own, so instead he re-locks the coffers, locks the room and goes in search of Wriothesley to see how much progress he has made on establishing the removed offices. Knowing the Secretary well, he expects not to have to do much, and he is right.
"When shall his Majesty remove?" Wriothesley asks.
"In another two days, I believe." Cromwell advises, "Though he may change his mind. It is best to be ready for his arrival at any time - though I think that you are, are you not?"
"Of course." The Secretary sniffs, almost offended at the implied suggestion that he might not be.
By the end of the following week, all who can move to Placentia have done so, and the Court is busy with its pursuit of summer leisure. Being unable to indulge in many of his former pastimes, the King spends as much time as he can in the saddle, and the cold rooms are, consequently, full of game that he and his favourite Courtiers have run down on the hunt. Where he cannot take part, instead he watches as others risk their lives for the entertainment of the Court at the Tiltyard, or submit themselves to his rather expert criticism as they play tennis. Having once played extensively, he knows the sport well - and those who make errors are likely to find themselves showered with scornful invective for their shortcomings.
When she appears, the Queen's gowns are showing clear signs of being let out to accommodate the growing babe in her belly. She is radiant, while Henry behaves as though she is merely an incidental bystander in his magnificent feat of creating a son to succeed him. There is not even the slightest mention that the child is not a boy - and Cromwell is quite convinced that the child would not dare to be female.
Being back in favour again, the Lady Mary has returned to court in the aftermath of the rebellions. With their failure, and the executions of those who participated - which has now risen in number to over two hundred people - it is considered safe for her to return to her father's side. With Fitzroy also present, however, her rooms are still a cause for contention, and she is obliged to endure lesser quarters once again - though they are still sumptuous in comparison to those of lesser courtiers.
Cromwell, despite the enmity that exists between them - even if only on her part, feels some sympathy with her again. She has been lauded, then repudiated and made to deny her strongest beliefs in order to regain that which was taken from her - and even that has not been restored in its entirety. All talk about her is now of a new Prince of Wales, so her nose is out of joint on two counts. Once again, he hopes he shall not be at Court when the sowed wind becomes the whirlwind. A woman with her degree of pride - inherited from both parents - could not hope to retain a sense of equanimity in the face of such casual cruelty. That is the preserve of gentler women, such as Jane - who endures her husband's philandering without complaint.
The King, meanwhile, showers his affections upon Fitzroy, who is almost constantly now in his company. They hunt in the mornings, while Fitzroy observes the Council in the afternoon, and then seems to be required to remain at his father's side for the entirety of the evening as well.
"It must be so dull for him." Kat observes, from a quiet corner at the far end of the hall from the Dais.
Rich turns to her, "I think his Majesty is hedging his bets with that boy. If Queen Jane gives us a son, then the babe shall be our next King. If not, then he must want to be sure that Fitzroy is educated in the requirements of his station."
"I think he must never have so much as a moment to himself."
"The King does not - so it is best that he learn it now rather than discover it after the fact." He pauses, "I think Mary has had enough. Thomas mentioned this morning that she has requested consent from his Majesty to retire from Court until her Majesty goes into confinement."
"Poor girl. It must be dreadful to be standing aside as she must when once she was the centre of all." Kat's voice is heavy, and Rich knows that she empathises, for she has endured much the same, thanks to the smallpox.
"Shall we go?" he asks quietly. Her response is a tight squeeze of his hand, and he smiles to himself.
"My Lords!" the King says, suddenly, stopping the pair in their tracks, "I am most blessed to have such fine children - and another soon to join us. In thanks to God for his goodness to me, I have decided that my beloved son Henry shall, when my son is born, be granted the Dukedom of York!"
Rich stops dead, "Shit."
Even behind her veil, he knows Kat is staring at him in shock at his epithet.
"Now we've got no choice." He explains, crossly, "Cromwell shall have to put that damned bill before Parliament. He'll want Fitzroy legitimised before that child is out of the Queen's belly. Whatever happens, Fitzroy shall be a true Prince before the autumn is gone."
Cromwell is glowering at his desk. Of all the things to be thrown at him, the King's declaration that his bastard son is to be Duke of York, once a Prince of Wales is born, rankles extensively. In some ways, he almost hopes now that the Queen shall bear a girl.
No. Then his Majesty shall demand that we make Fitzroy Prince of Wales. God help us if he does that.
He looks across the offices from his desk, and sighs. The Court might be at leisure, but those who work to keep the Government of the Kingdom moving never enjoy such pleasures. Wriothesley is immersed in files, while Rich is scribbling away furiously in his speed-hand while working his way through a fearsomely tall stack of reports. With the failure of the so-called Pilgrimage of Grace, the King is even more determined to progress the closure of the monastic houses, and so the workload has expanded accordingly. Given, however, how many there are still to be closed, Cromwell expects the activity to be ongoing for at least another year, if not two or more.
If only his Majesty were as keen to implement his proposed Poor Laws - after all, for all their profligacy, many of the houses did offer a degree of succour to those most in need. If these are gone, then what is to take their place? Resistance from the wealthy is likely to be singularly dogged, for, after all, why should they hand over any of their extensive riches to those who have none - but they must do it, or the lack of aid for those who once turned to the great religious Houses could cause another rising. Cromwell is not blind to the rebels who wanted more than merely the overturning of the religious reforms.
And then, of course, there is still the problem of the unsolved murders. God, he needs more time in the day - either that or he must learn how not to sleep. He hates to have problems unresolved, and such things always gnaw at him until they are dealt with. The papers are again tacked to the walls of the room, and he still returns there every few days to re-read everything in the hope that, perhaps, something he has not seen before might fall out. His only relief is that there have been no deaths since the Court removed. Perhaps it was Carew. He makes a mental note to send a courier to enquire whether there have been any unpleasant murders in the regions surrounding Carew's estate.
As midday approaches, his stomach growls and he realises he is slightly light-headed. He did not break his fast this morning, instead coming straight to his desk as soon as he had risen. He does not really have the time to eat, but better that than faint at his desk. Collecting Rich, for they now draw more comments when they are not in each other's company than when they are, he repairs to the Hall.
"How goes the collation of the Commissioner's reports?" he asks.
"Slowly." Rich admits, "They are coming to me in ever greater numbers, and the discussions of the Court officers are tiresome. Suffice to say, however, that his Majesty shall be one of the richest Princes in Europe at this rate." He pauses, then continues, "Though I fear he spends it almost faster than it is accumulated. I believe he is now intent on remodelling St James's Palace - I have already been obliged to release funds to supplement those already provided for the ongoing works at Hampton Court. It seems that either his Majesty's plans are growing more grandiose with each idea that he has, or we are being extensively gouged by the masons."
Cromwell sighs. If he had had any plans for the destination of the monies coming in, it was not for vanity projects at the Palaces. He had been thinking more along the lines of a system of decent roads between the major towns; after all, with a growing economy, the lack of sensible means to transport goods is becoming desperately apparent. The world is changing, and he must battle alone against those who wish to keep things as they are.
The midday dinner is, inevitably, a rather snatched affair, and they are returning to their desks within less than half an hour, while those who have no work to do return to the endless business of finding something to keep them occupied. Rich envies them in one respect: while he would be hideously bored if he had no work to do, at least he could be with Kat more frequently than he is. No wonder people spend their days, and nights, seeking out affairs. If nothing else, it passes the time.
There is little to discuss at the Council meeting, and the King dismisses them all in less than twenty minutes, eager to get out of the Palace and ride in the sunny heat. Thus the grand Lords depart to the stables, while the lesser beings return to their stuffy chambers and the continually accumulating piles of papers.
The small packet of papers on his desk bemuses Cromwell for a moment, until he recognises the writing of Doctor Butts. Opening it, he finds within far more extensive notes of the three post-mortems that the doctor undertook. Summoning Rich, who is standing and staring in dismay at how much his pile of papers awaiting work has grown in the time he has been away, he departs to their investigation room.
"I really need to get back to my desk." Rich frets, "I am falling behind."
"Forgive me, Richard. I do not think this shall take long - for what else is there to find other than that which we already know?" Cromwell apologises, before handing over the report for Louise Knotte.
Rich's eyes flit over the text, "There is little more to report - except he managed to find the incision on her neck. He had thought it to be lost in the general damage that was inflicted, but it seems that he had failed to see it in the first instance for it was obscured by blood."
Cromwell looks up, expecting him to gag, but he does not, "Are you growing used to this, Mr Rich?" he asks again.
"Not by choice."
As Cromwell expected, there is little additional information in the papers - but with the discovery of the incision upon Miss Knotte's neck, at least they have consistency in the method, "As the method of dispatch appears to be the same in each case, I think it is safe to assume that each killing has been undertaken by the same person. I just wish it were possible to determine who that person is."
"I am still hoping that it's Carew. The lack of a body over the last few weeks suggests that it might be."
The sight of the Constable at Cromwell's desk when they return, however, suggests otherwise.
Standing beside Cromwell, Rich notices him almost seem to sag at the sight of the Constable's face, for it is no trifling matter that has brought him to the Offices. There is only one reason for him to be there.
"Another body, my Lord." The Constable confirms.
"God preserve us." Wriothesley mutters, from his desk. Without being prompted, Rich heads to his desk to fetch paper, quills ink and a board to rest on while he writes.
The stench is appalling, for the weather is still very warm. Cromwell sighs inwardly, for even his stomach is being turned by this, so he assumes that Rich shall struggle to even remain in earshot. To his surprise, however, his colleague calmly asks a trembling guard to fetch him a chair so that he can write more comfortably, and fumbles into a scrip for a kerchief and a small vial.
"As you said, my Lord," he advises, "I am becoming rather more used to this than I thought." Upending the vial over the kerchief, he drips the fluid within over the muslin, and Cromwell catches the scent of sweet spices that Rich uses. He has not brought scent with him, but instead some oil of lavender, as it has a far stronger perfume, and is not too offensive to him in close proximity. The pair are tying the kerchiefs over their mouths and noses when Butts arrives alongside the pale guard, who is carrying a chair and looks most keen to be elsewhere.
"I see you are both ready, Gentlemen." He says, fetching out his gauntlets again, "God above, this one is ripe. Do you have any more of that oil, my Lord?"
Seating himself, and setting out his writing equipment, Rich takes a moment to examine the floor, "Clean again." He mutters, and makes a quick note to that effect as he dates the page.
"I see the killer has reverted to type, then." Butts observes, looking about the small, not particularly well appointed room. As previously, the walls have sprays of blood upon them, not being so far away as they were in Sarah Culver's bedchamber. Muttering measurements to himself, Butts moves about, carefully. He takes care to avoid the inevitable footprints, before setting to work on measuring these, too, "Again - more than one size of foot, I think."
Satisfied, he sets the cord aside and turns to the ruined body, "Female again - clothing slit from top to bottom." He declares, though as Rich is actually looking into the room now, he no longer needs to describe in such detail, "Face disfigured, and upper body eviscerated." He checks the neck, "Yes - there is an incision again. It is here," He points, and Cromwell bends to look. Sure enough, a small slit has been cut into the flesh over the point where the strongest pulse would have pumped. The smell at such close proximity is sufficient to defeat even the lavender oil, and he rises hastily, "That is most offensive."
"It is." Butts agrees, "The heat has done much damage." He points, "Again - there is the womb. Excised and carefully left alongside the body."
Cromwell bends, checks and nods, "The pattern is being maintained, then."
"It would seem so."
"Then it cannot be Carew." He cannot hide his disgust. Their hoped suspect is no suspect, "Blast."
As Butts busies himself making another careful sketch of the scene, Rich sets his papers aside and removes the kerchief. There is one thing he has not yet searched for. Moving away, he finds his way to a window, and leans out of it for a while to breathe in the fresher air and clear away the lingering remains of the scent.
Yes. There it is - faint, and barely noticeable amidst the stink of the body; but it is there.
"There's Vetiver again, Thomas." He reports, retrieving his papers to make a note of it, "You'll need to clear the scent of lavender from your nostrils to catch it, though. It's fighting against the smell of the body."
Cromwell copies Rich, spending some time at the open window to eradicate the smell of lavender. When he returns, he grimaces, but sniffs a few times, "Yes. I smell it, too."
"I can only assume that the killer is using it to mask the smell of bodily matter that must be upon him when he departs." Rich muses, "Though if it is still noticeable now, he must be using it lavishly - Vetiver is not inexpensive. This is, to some degree, quite a costly enterprise."
"Then we can be assured that it is not a servant." Cromwell grumbles, "But not much else."
By late afternoon, Rich's notes are transcribed, and Cromwell has established that the occupant of the chambers was one Elizabeth Milton, a minor courtier in the entourage of one higher in status. In the meantime, the pile of reports that have been placed upon Rich's desk has grown to nearly six inches in height, and he gives up for the day in disgust.
It takes Kat nearly an hour to respond to his invitation to join him, "Forgive me, Richie, the Countess is unwell again. She asked that I remain with her."
"It is of no matter. You are here now." He indicates that she seat herself by the fireplace, where a chair and a cup of wine awaits her attention, "We were obliged to deal with another death today."
"I know," she sighs, "the Court is a-buzz with it. Do you know who died?"
"We think it was Miss Elizabeth Milton."
"Lizzie?" Kat looks very sad, "Poor girl - she had fallen upon hard times after Nicholas Carew was banished. He was her last amour - and she has no means of supporting herself except by maintaining liaisons with men. We were doing all that we could to keep her, for she could not find any other."
"Could you establish why that was?"
"You have not met Lizzie, have you?" Kat smiles, sadly, "If you had, you would understand why. She was a woman who could not keep a man for long, for she was not pretty, nor clever, nor witty - and she had the most appalling screeching laugh, which she unleashed without restraint, for she could not understand when to use it, and when not to. Thus her liaisons were frequent, but not long lasting."
"Frequent?" Rich asks, bemused.
"Men were, shall we say, happy to invite her into their beds, and tended to pay quite handsomely for the privilege - but they could only abide her weak character traits for a short time, and eventually the benefits of her attentions would exceed the price. It was her living, for there are many men at court, and they come and go with regularity. Unfortunately, following the move to Placentia, the number of new men has fallen, and all that remain are those who have tired of her - or those who have not, but are not prepared to pay as handsomely they have previously."
"I am not sure I understand what you mean, Kat. Why would they pay so much for her, yet not keep her? Or, if she is as repellent as you suggest, why have anything to do with her at all?"
"She was very accomplished at certain activities." Kat smiles at him, a little coquettishly, then looks at him in surprise, for he still seems not to have worked out her meaning, "Are you being so dull on purpose?"
Rich shakes his head, slowly, "Alas, no. Why pay her a great deal, when the women of Cheapside would service them for less?"
She rises from her chair and leans in close to him, "She knew things that no woman on Cheapside could imagine."
His eyes widen, "God above, are we men truly so easily led?"
She does not reply. Instead her hands speak for her, and he lets out a sudden, sharp cry.
Busy at his desk, Cromwell fails to notice when Rich arrives in the offices, and settles in front of the enormous pile of reports without complaint. After half an hour, finally seeing his colleague, who is working diligently despite looking both distracted and unexpectedly cheerful, Cromwell frowns, and crosses to him, "You seem uncommonly well this morning, Mr Rich. Did you discover anything of use to us last night?" He moves away, and Rich follows him to their investigation room.
"It seems Miss Milton was obliged to make her living as Miss Knotte and Miss Hamme tended to do." Rich explains, as he sits down, "In Miss Milton's case, however, she was obliged to make use of certain other talents to secure the attention of the men at court, for she had nothing else to recommend her."
"Such as?" Cromwell prompts.
"Do I need to describe it?" Rich asks, pointedly; though Cromwell stares at him in surprise, for he has turned a rather cherry red.
"Perhaps not." He concedes, suddenly embarrassed, and hastily changes the subject, "I have received a preliminary report from Doctor Butts. It seems likely that Miss Milton had not been dead for much more than a day and a night - if that. The weather being as warm as it is led to her becoming malodorous rather more swiftly than usual, and thus she was discovered quickly."
"I take it we must begin questioning again, then." Rich says, "My backlog is growing with each passing minute, so the sooner we undertake the task, and complete it, the better." He is very eager to avoid returning to the subject of Miss Milton's talents.
"What about the Vetiver?" Cromwell asks, suddenly, "I have never used it."
"Nor have I," Rich agrees, "It is costly - though not beyond my means. I am not willing to pay so much for something that I would not wish to wear - it is not a scent that I find overly agreeable. Though many other men at Court feel differently, for it shows them to be men of means. Its strength is such that it is used as a fixative for other scents, too - and I am sure that I have noticed tinges of bergamot at times when I have detected that scent at the scenes, but it is a weaker fragrance and diminishes more quickly."
The Court proves to be as monumentally unhelpful as ever, offering only rumour, supposition and spite. None saw or heard anything at the proposed time that she was murdered, or at any point prior or after, and no names are suggested as potential subjects. With Carew banished from court, and Paxton, only Neville is still present, and he can vouch for his whereabouts - which he does with the most unbecoming smugness. Now they have no one.
Back in the investigation room, Cromwell sits at the table and glares at the papers in disgust, as though daring them to show him something that he has missed. He loathes to fail - hates to - and yet he seems to be helpless in the face of a killer determined not to be caught.
"Who are you?" He says, aloud, "You vile bastard. Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this? God help me, I shall not give up. I promise I shall not. I shall find you, and I shall send you to Tyburn to hang with the other murderers. Damn you."
Still glowering, he rises from the table and leaves the room. Damn it. He shall never, never stop looking.