CHAPTER TWELVE
Darkness Comes to Call
After two days of constant work, with only the briefest of breaks to eat, and short sleep, Rich has finally cleared his enormous backlog of papers. If he could, he would join Cromwell in staring pointlessly at the papers they have accumulated in the investigation room; but there seems too little worthwhile reason to do so, and instead he writes a missive to Kat apologising for neglecting her, and inviting her to join him to sup tomorrow evening, for tonight he is too tired to desire anything other than sleep.
The room is uncomfortably warm, thanks to the large array of candles, without which neither he nor Wriothesley, who is also still present, would be able to see their papers. He has abandoned his furred simarre, and his doublet is open. It took him several days to recover from the effects of his overheating when they arrived at Placentia, and he has no wish to endure that again.
Packing the papers into a coffer, Rich stifles a yawn and gathers up the simarre. Tired though he is, he would still prefer it if Kat could be with him; but the Countess has been ill again over the last few days, so she is probably as tired as he is. That said, no amount of exhaustion would be sufficient to keep him from her if she repeats the tricks that she showed him three nights ago. No wonder men gave Elizabeth Milton such gifts in payment. For a moment, he considers visiting her apartment to invite her to join him, but then decides against it - it is too late to impose upon her. He shall wait until the morrow.
His writing is not as neat as Rich's, and Cromwell sighs at the rather discordant effect his ungoverned scrawl imposes against his colleague's fine Chancery hand. With Rich so busy, he has taken it upon himself to make additional enquiries based on their observations of the sheer amount of mess that the killer has made - both to the surroundings and, presumably, to his garments. Thus he has spent an unpleasant afternoon in the damp humidity of the laundry, in hopes that the laundresses have received clothes that are excessively befouled with blood, or other substances. Not only was the time unpleasant, it proved also to be fruitless, for none of the women present could recall anything other than undergarments stained by women going through their monthly courses. He had had one frisson of hope when one mentioned large amounts of blood and gore - only to find himself disappointed to discover that the mess had come from a miscarriage earlier in the year.
How is he hiding himself? He thinks, crossly, Who can possibly be helping him? Everything suggests a tight bond of loyalty - which equally suggests the Minions, for they are bonded almost like brothers. They close ranks immediately against anything that they consider to be a threat to their wellbeing or pleasure - he has found that over and over again throughout his investigation - and they are always together. Most of them are wealthy enough to afford Vetiver scent, though he was not, until recently, aware of it so he has no idea if any of them wear it. They regard him with quite enough scorn as it is, so to walk up to them and start sniffing shall cause them amusement if nothing else.
He yawns, widely, and decides to abandon the investigation for the night. There is nothing more that he can do - unless he wishes to stoke Rich's ire by asking him to rewrite the notes to make them appear consistent. Pinching out the candles, he locks up the doors and retires.
Why am I in here again? Cromwell thinks to himself, as he stares endlessly at the papers pinned to the wall. They made no difference to his ignorance last night, so why come back and hope that this morning shall be any different?
He looks up as the door opens to admit Rich, who seems to be thinking much the same himself if his expression is anything to go by. It seems that neither of them can leave things as they are - unlike the rest of the Court, who seem quite content to forget each incident within a day of its happening. Even the King seems to have lost interest in the continued killings of his Courtiers; perhaps he feels that they should be thinned out a bit.
Rich joins him, and they sit side by side on the table, each of them staring at the evidence that they have accumulated so far.
"So." Cromwell says, "Four victims. All women. All of lesser birth - but not servants, it appears."
"Not that we know of." Rich agrees, "I think the Constable would have told us if female servants were being killed."
"Generally of lesser means, and thus obliged to seek funds by obtaining gifts from wealthier men."
"To put it more crudely," Rich adds, as Cromwell appears to be too embarrassed by the idea, "Sleeping with higher placed Courtiers in the hope of receiving gifts from them." As this is, effectively, the course of his relationships with previous mistresses, he has no shame in saying so. It is, after all, different with Kat.
"In the eyes of many, however, such behaviour would be considered to be both wanton, and sinful." Cromwell continues, "Though not in the case of Miss Culver - who was most careful to guard her chastity well."
"But then," Rich continues, rather cynically, "She could afford to."
"She is still an aberration, however, for Miss Hamme, Miss Knotte and Miss Milton were all known for their openness to favours from the men of the Court. Unless, as you suggested, Richard, the killer viewed the attentions that she was rejecting to make her the equal of the others." He frowns, "I do not understand why that should drive any man to kill."
"I think that, if looks could kill, they should have died years prior." Rich admits, "For those of better means regarded them as little better than whores. Besides, with so little else for them to do other than embroidery, perhaps they cannot be blamed too much. What else is there for their entertainment?"
"I most certainly do not." Cromwell admits, "For I came from poorer stock even than they, though not from the lowest rungs of society - for my father could afford to have me educated to at least some degree. Most of the rest of my learning came from later in life - and I have gained much from my hard work since that time. No matter how hard they would have been prepared to work to improve their lot, they are denied the gainful employment that has enriched me alongside that which came to me by marriage and shrewd business dealings."
"And embezzlement." Rich adds, more quietly, for he is just as guilty, "Do not forget that. We are grotesque thieves, are we not?"
"Thus they are obliged to make what living they can from those about them." Cromwell continues, deliberately ignoring Rich's quip, "Each of them, then, is gentle-born, though of limited means, other than Miss Culver; all of them died in the same fashion - an opening in their throats to bleed them quickly. I assume that was done to silence them as soon as was possible - Butts tells me that such a wound would cause unconsciousness within a matter of minutes - if they were not unconscious already, though it is impossible to verify that."
"It would certainly explain why there was no sound of a struggle." Rich agrees, "Though I think it likely that they might have been at least dazed, surely?"
"Not necessarily. If the act with the knife was swift enough, a hand over the mouth would have been sufficient to quiet all until the victim was no longer able to call out."
"The fragrance of vetiver suggests to me that the killer is not a servant." Rich continues, "Vetiver is costly, and no servant could possibly afford it. While none would notice servants travelling about the palace, none would be of sufficient means to afford such an expensive fragrance."
"Perhaps the killer dresses as a servant in order to conceal themselves?" Cromwell suggests, "As you say, they are not seen as others are." He frowns, "No, how can that be the case? Why would any of these women admit an unfamiliar servant into their rooms? Surely they would dismiss them and await whoever sent them."
"Perhaps the killer's accomplices dress as servants?" Rich suggests, "They announce the killer, who is admitted, and then assist him in his departure."
He snatches up a quill, charges it and quickly scribbles the idea down in his speed-hand. They are clutching at straws, but what else do they have?
"Damn. I've run out of ink."
"There is charcoal if you are desperate to continue writing." Cromwell sighs, "So - we can safely presume that the killer is being admitted into the apartments without a fight, for the rooms are not in disarray, and show no sign of having been hastily restored after the fact. The manner in which the victim is dispatched is quick and efficient - albeit extremely bloody, thus granting the killer ample time to carry out his depraved actions without fear of the sound of a disturbance drawing attention. He has assistance, for none of the blood or matter is tracked out despite extensive footprints in the rooms - and no one sees a man in the halls coated in blood."
"The clothing is either being disposed of after each killing, or laundered elsewhere." Rich adds, "For, according to these hideously badly written notes on the subject, none of the Laundresses have noticed anything unusual amongst their work."
"I do not write as neatly as you, Richard. That is the way of things. If you are that dismayed, rewrite the notes."
Rich is looking at the papers, frowning. Fetching a sheet of paper, he grabs a small stick of charcoal and leans on the table, scribbling.
"What? The other notes are in your writing."
"I was just looking at the dates of the deaths." He says, "There is no consistent pattern: The first took place in July, well before the October rising in Lincolnshire - and then nothing. The second was at Christmastide, and the third just past New Year - but, again, there were no further deaths until this one just past - and it is halfway through July."
They look at each other. There can only be one truly logical reason why the deaths should be so oddly spaced, and Cromwell puts their thoughts into words, "The killer is not regularly at Court."
"How are we to verify who has been here, and who has not, during these periods?" Rich asks, worriedly, "The population of the Court varies so widely, and people are back and forth so frequently - the pool of suspects shall be all but impossible to narrow down, shall it not?"
"We shall certainly cause much ire if we recommence questioning on such a matter. I am only familiar with the comings and goings of the royal family - not the Courtiers."
"At least we can discount Palace servants." Rich says, "They are always present, except for those in the retinues of the Lords, and I cannot imagine that they have the time even to sleep, much less engage in murderous activities of such nature. Therefore we need only concern ourselves with the Courtiers who are currently present at Placentia - for the killer must still be here. Thus we need to uncover the movements of everyone who is here, to see if they tally with the dates of the murders…" his voice trails off.
"What?"
"Jesu - that is a lot of people."
"I doubt that it could be one of the higher-placed Lords," Cromwell muses, "For they are too well known. I am quite certain that there would be extensive comment if, say, Suffolk were to be seen prowling the corridors of the lower-ranked female courtiers."
Rich snorts with mild amusement. He is well aware of the Duke's reputation as a rake in his younger days - and Brandon is still not above the occasional affair now and again.
"Perhaps we should divide them into two lists." Rich sighs, "One for you, and one for me. We could commence each interview by sniffing. If they do not smell of vetiver, we can stop at that point."
"And be considered to have gone mad? Credit me with some dignity, Richard."
"With things as they are, Thomas, I think our dignity is of the least concern. If this man kills again, then we have failed once more - I do not wish to keep on finding rooms splattered with blood."
The list of courtiers that they must consider is horribly large; far too large for either man to set down without approaching the Master of the Household, and even splitting it into two would not reduce the task in simplicity, "I think it would be far easier for us if it were a member of the royal family." Rich grumbles, "There are only two men to consider."
"Do you think the King is doing this?" Cromwell asks, his eyebrow heading towards his hairline.
"Or Fitzroy." Rich grins, "Now that would solve more than one problem, would it not?"
"And see our heads struck from our shoulders, Richard. I would not go about suggesting that in public."
"God above, Thomas - do you really think the King would countenance a crime as grave as this from his son?"
"Quite possibly; I should not mention it again."
"I do not intend to. Even I am not fool enough to risk a facetious comment being overheard and taken seriously."
"The list of Courtiers currently resident, my Lord." The Master of the Household advises, setting down a rather nervewrackingly large ledger, "These are the ones to whom apartments are currently assigned, with the appropriate allowances set out alongside."
Cromwell stares at it. Rich was right: this is a lot of people - it shall take hours to split into two lists - and days, no, weeks to approach them all. In which case, best not to mention the vetiver. Word shall get round about that, and the killer would stop using it. He sighs; he is fighting against someone who is well practised in their activity, and has not yet made any error. Even the use of the fragrance is not sufficient - for many men at Court wear it. God above, once it gets out what they are asking, the killer can even ensure that all evidence of their movements is safely obscured. It seems hopeless: no matter what they discover, there is a way of neutralising it.
There are just too many people, "Do you maintain records of when people are present, and when they are not?"
"I do not." The inoffensive man replies, "The Mistress of the Maids might be able to assist you, however, for she assigns maids to the chambers, and if the chambers are not occupied, then she reassigns them elsewhere. Whether she records that, however, I could not say."
"Of course I keep records, my Lord!" Cromwell cringes slightly at the volume of the woman's voice, and her clear offence that he has suggested otherwise, "How else am I to keep track of where the maids are working, and their hours? I am required to submit reports to the Exchequer department so that the Courtiers can be charged for their services!"
"Forgive me, Ma'am." He apologises, contrite, "Might I be permitted to examine the records? I am undertaking an…audit…at the King's order." He opts not to suggest that this request relates to the killings.
Again, the ledger is enormous, and he sighs inwardly at the sight of it. This is going to take days. Better, though, than weeks.
Rich looks at the two sets of records, and sighs, "God. This is going to take forever, isn't it?"
"I fear so." Cromwell agrees, "But if it identifies a suspect, then it shall have been worth the effort." He looks at Rich's pile of papers, which has grown again while they were in the investigation room, "I shall commence the exercise, I think. You can take a turn on the morrow."
"I can hardly wait." Rich grumbles, turning back to his backlog of paperwork.
Cromwell's afternoon is a long drag of tedium and frustration. Some, he can discount immediately, for they are currently away from Court, but the long list of records of the activities of the chambermaids goes back over the preceding year, and is set out in linear fashion, requiring him to go through endless pages in order to find relevant entries. After an hour, he has been able to account for the whereabouts of a mere five people. The Household ledger for Placentia contains nearly six hundred names.
I don't have time for this. No one has time for this. He cannot ask Rich to spend a day in such endeavours - not with so many reports coming in from the Commissioners; and he cannot spare the time either. There must be an easier, quicker way - but, if there is, he cannot think of one. Not even his small army of Clerks could spare the time to do it. Perhaps he should just accept the humiliation and go about the court sniffing people's scent. It would certainly be faster than this.
Rich looks up as he comes back to the offices. He does not enquire, for he knows that the task is Sisyphean in scale, and probably even more frustrating. That he must endure the same ordeal tomorrow does not appeal in the slightest - perhaps he should feign illness instead.
"I think I shall repair to the Hall to sup." Cromwell says, with surprising patience given the frustrating nature of his afternoon.
"I shall join you." Rich says, gathering his papers together to lock away.
"I am reconsidering the idea of checking the ledgers." Cromwell admits, as they head to the Hall in hopes of arriving for the first remove, "It shall be an impossibly long task to complete - and no one in the office has the time or the patience to undertake the task."
"Not even Wriothesley?" Rich smirks. Even Cromwell smiles at such a suggestion.
The spread of victuals is, as expected, fresh from the kitchens and, thus has not lost too much heat. The Hall is relatively quiet, for the King has opted to dine in private with Queen Jane, so the entertainments shall be rather more subdued than they would be if he were present.
"Are you not planning to sup with Miss Silverton tonight?" Cromwell asks, suddenly.
Rich reddens again, but does not elaborate. After Kat's demonstration of Lizzie Milton's apparently legendary skills, he has opted not to waste time supping when she joins him. That said, the last thing he wishes to do is explain such activity to the resolutely staid and almost monastically celibate Cromwell. Having found out for himself precisely why men were so keen to grant gifts to the woman who was not pretty, not witty and not clever, he wishes to revisit the experience with a woman who, while not considered to be pretty, is certainly witty and clever. He has claimed a better bargain than those who sought out Lizzie Milton, even if few would agree with him.
Excusing himself, he hastens to his apartments, hoping that Kat has also supped, though his invitation to her was supposed to include victuals. After their last liaison, perhaps she might guess that he would prefer to move straight on to more pleasurable activities.
She is not present when he arrives, which does not concern him unduly, for the Countess has been very demanding of late. She is almost certainly unwell again. Although he is glad that she has not done so, he wonders why she remains at Court instead of retiring. Surely she is not still convinced that she shall be a godparent to the Queen's babe? Seating himself beside the fireplace, with only a small applewood fire burning, for the weather is still quite warm, he nurses a cup of sack and settles in to wait.
She's trying that headdress again. He thinks to himself after an hour, rising from his chair. Best to go and help her extricate herself from it again. He smiles at the thought.
He is still smiling as he reaches her apartments. As usual, he does not bother to knock, "Come now, Kat - you should know better than…"
He stops, frozen dead in horror at the ghastly scene that confronts him, "Jesus! Oh dear God, Christ have mercy!"
Cromwell is startled at the sound of hammering upon the door of his apartments, and hastens to open it, as his manservant is busy elsewhere. There is a frightened looking guard outside, "What is it?"
"Beg pardon, my Lord," the young man says, "The Constable asks you to come with me, immediately."
He does not even pause to grab his simarre, hastening instead after his escort. There can be only one reason for the frantic summons, but he is not prepared for the scene that he encounters.
Rich is on the floor, being manhandled by the Constable, "For God's sake! Fetch Doctor Butts - fetch him, she needs him, oh dear Christ, let me to her! Please!"
"I cannot, my Lord!" the Constable shouts over him, "The Lord Privy Seal insists that naught be disturbed within!"
"Kat!" Rich screams, "Kat! I'm here! I'm here, please, please don't go! I'm here!" he is fighting, trying to break away from the Constable's grip.
Cromwell pauses only briefly, as he already knows what he shall see beyond the door. Instead, he crouches beside Rich, "I am truly sorry, Richard. Truly. There is nothing that is to be done."
"Let go of me!" Rich is still fighting, "Let me to her! For God's sake! I beg you, she needs me at her side - please let me to her! Where the hell is Doctor Butts? Oh Christ! Kat!"
He turns to the guard that escorted him, and sees that they have attracted something of a crowd, "Get this place isolated - move these vultures on. Now! Then find Doctor Butts!"
"That is in hand, my Lord," The Constable pants, blown by his continuing efforts to restrain Rich, who even now is still trying to fight free of him, "I have sent a note, for Sir Richard was frozen still when I came upon him - I was nearby, dealing with a drunkard…" he breaks off, as Rich gets close to breaking from him, and reestablishes his grip, "…when I heard his cry. It was only when other people appeared that he began to try to enter the room."
Cromwell grips Rich's shoulders, "Look at me, Richard. Look at me."
His eyes wide, all of his anguished desperation written large upon his expressive face, Rich complies.
"I am sorry - I am truly sorry, but there is nothing that anyone can do. She is gone - no matter what went before, now she is at peace - for she is not suffering. I cannot let you to her. I wish that I could, but I cannot." Cromwell hears footsteps, and looks up to see Doctor Butts approaching.
"Doctor!" again, Rich is fighting the Constable, but this time to appeal to the approaching physician, "For God's sake - she is hurt, she is grievously hurt, please help her - I beg you!"
Butts takes one look inside the door, and sighs, "There is nothing I can do for her, Sir Richard. You have seen the outcome of these acts. I cannot restore to life one who is gone from it."
"Damn you! She needs your aid! Why will you not help her?" Despite everything, Rich refuses to accept the Doctor's words, "Save her! I beg you, save her!"
"I cannot. You ask the impossible of me." The kindness of his voice attempts to blunt the brutality of his words, but rather than demand action, instead, Rich crumples to the floor and moans, hopelessly.
Butts turns to Cromwell, "I can do nothing until I have aided him. Help me get him to his quarters."
Cromwell nods, "Secure the scene, Constable. We shall be as quick as we may."
The Constable sighs, "Yes, my Lord. I hope that he shall not be too long in grief." He turns to the guard, "Fetch Thoms and Bickerstaff. See if any others are in the guard room."
Rich puts up no protest as Cromwell and Butts escort him back to his apartments. All the fight seems to have gone out of him, and he is silent. Once there, Butts turns to Cromwell as Rich's Manservant comes to their aid, "I can manage here. Return to the scene - you shall need to make the notes today."
His eyes sad, Cromwell nods, "Take care of him. I shall see you anon."
"Come. You should rest, my Lord." Butts turns his attention to Rich, who follows him: his expression almost lost, "I shall give you something to help you to sleep."
As he is seated on his bed, Rich suddenly seems to return to life, "Doctor - if you cannot save her, then I beg you - she wears a pendant - a black pearl drop, on a gold chain, set with gold vines and leaves. You must find it - a black pearl. She always wears it."
"I shall," Butts answers, quietly, as he turns to pour some wine from a flagon, "Six drops, I think." He mutters to himself.
"Promise me!" Rich insists, "A black pearl - on a gold chain with gold vines and leaves. Promise me!" he clutches at Butts's arm with such a grip that the doctor almost drops the cup.
"I promise." Butts says, quietly, with all the sincerity that he can muster, for it is clear that Rich shall not let the matter drop unless he does, "Now, you must drink this. It is poppy extract, and it shall help you to sleep."
"I cannot - you need me to make notes…"
"We can manage, Sir Richard. You have endured a great shock - it is best that you rest and recover. You can assist us in the morning." He can hardly stand to look at the grieving man, so deep is the pain etched across his face.
Drooping, defeated, Rich takes the cup, "I should rather this were poison."
"It is not. For we need you to aid us in bringing this monster to justice. Would you not want that for Miss Silverton?"
He does not answer. Instead he swallows the contents of the cup as though he still hopes it to be toxic, and end his life. Taking a seat nearby, Butts waits patiently until he sleeps.
Cromwell is still standing in the doorway when Butts returns, his expression unreadable, "Is all peaceful?"
"It is. I gave him poppy extract in wine, he should sleep for the rest of the night, and possibly into tomorrow."
"God help us."
"We must set our feelings aside, my Lord." Butts says, firmly, "Miss Silverton deserves nothing less than our fullest attention if we are to find the man who killed her."
A guard arrives at their side, carrying writing equipment, "As you requested, my Lord."
"Is all as we have come to expect?" Butts asks, quietly, as he dons his gauntlets again. Cromwell nods.
"Then it is as before - the same killer, the same method, but I shall take care to examine her to be sure. Sir Richard would never forgive us if we did anything less, and I am not sure that I could do so either."
The examination takes much longer, not merely for their care, but because they lack Rich and his ability to note their words verbatim as they speak them. His voice an odd monotone, and slower than usual to enable Cromwell to keep up with him, Butts quietly narrates as he works, "The face is cut until unrecognisable, and there is an incision into the neck at the same spot as with the previous victims. The upper body is eviscerated, all organs removed without care or thought, while the womb has been excised and set beside the remains."
Cromwell notes as best he can. For the first time, he feels nauseous - for this time the killer has not merely taken a life, but it is as though he has struck at them; deliberately, personally. Rich's relationship with Kat was hardly a secret, and neither of them believed that it was - despite their discretion. Did the killer know that, or was she selected because she was sleeping with a man out of wedlock? He cannot tell, and the frustration gnaws at him.
As previously, Butts sets to work with his measuring cord, establishing the extent of blood spurts, the sizes of the footprints and the degree to which the gore has been spread. As always, there is nothing beyond the door, and, now that he knows to check for it, Cromwell can detect, just, the smell of Vetiver - almost obliterated by the reek of the corpse, but not quite.
His notes complete, he turns to Butts, who is carefully searching, "What are you looking for?"
"Sir Richard asked me to find something - but I cannot."
"What is it?"
"A jewel - a black pearl on a gold chain. He claimed that she always wore it - but it is not about her neck."
"Does she have a jewel box?"
Butts turns and sees a small coffer on a nearby dressing stand, "It is not in here, either. Do you think she might have lost it?"
"I do not think it likely - a woman of her station would have taken extreme care with her jewels, for they could not be replaced. I think perhaps the killer might have thought it a fine bauble and perhaps taken it."
"Do you think we shall find him with it?"
"Not unless he wears it on open display - and I think not even one such as this monster would be such a fool." Cromwell has no idea why the killer would be so stupid as to steal something, but still he makes a note of it, "I wonder if he took items from his other victims."
"Why would he do such a thing? Surely that would put him at risk of discovery?"
"I cannot begin to imagine; but there is no accounting for the depravity of the human mind, Doctor Butts. I shall make a note of this - a black pearl drop set into gold vines and leaves, did you say?"
"I did. Sir Richard was most insistent."
Cromwell frowns. Of all the things to be insistent upon - a jewel; though a pearl of such rarity would doubtless be expensive…
Furious with himself for such a thought, he gathers his papers together, "Could you see to Miss Silverton's removal to a place where you can conduct the post mortem?"
"I shall ensure that she receives every care."
"How long ago did this likely happen, Doctor?"
"I cannot say for certain. From the state of the corpse, I would think it likely that she has not been dead more than a day - it is probable that the killer came to her last night." He removes a gauntlet, and rests his hand on Cromwell's forearm, "I am truly sorry that it has come to this. I shall endeavour to find all that I can to help you run down this depraved beast."
"Thank you, Doctor."
By the light of a single candle, Cromwell sits at the table in the investigation room, and struggles with himself to remain objective. He cannot afford to make this a personal vendetta - or he shall act rashly, and unleash God knows what degree of suffering. Why did it have to be Kathryn? Of all the women to meet their end at the hands of this monster, why her? Perhaps the killer might have considered her no better than the four previous victims. But this is different: Kat was loved.
He reviews his notes, and attempts to begin a clearer transcription, but his eyes keep misting over. Somehow, Kat's death, and Rich's anguish, have raised the shade of Liz once again, and he wishes, more than anything, that she were with him. He would give anything, truly anything, to be able to hold her close and talk to her of this dreadful affair.
"I miss you, Liz…" he whispers, "and yet, I am glad you are not here to see this. The world is coming all to pieces, and I am at the centre of it. God…I miss you…"
And then he is in tears.
The candle has burned much lower when Butts appears in the investigation room. He notes Cromwell's reddened eyes, but does not draw attention to them, "I have moved Miss Silverton's remains to the last remaining cellar that is not filled with game." he sighs, "I shall commence the full post mortem on the morrow - though I cannot begin to imagine that there is anything else I shall find."
Cromwell sighs. He knows that Butts is taking care to manage his expectations, "I have made some inroads into transcribing my notes. Perhaps it may be that the theft of this pearl shall show us a new direction to follow."
"Perhaps." Butts agrees, "I am returning to Sir Richard's quarters, to see if he still sleeps."
There is no direct invitation, for Butts knows that he is not likely to go there alone. He is right.
Butts takes care to choose a route that shall avoid the murder scene, where the household staff are in the process of cleaning the hideous mess, "I have also arranged with another of the Countess's retinue to oversee the collection of Miss Silverton's possessions for dispatch back to her family. There is no suggestion that she made a will, so all shall go to her parents."
Cromwell sighs. He knows that this news shall wound Rich even more than he is already hurt. They are not a valid couple, and thus he cannot be present when she is consigned to the ground, nor can he claim even the most simple keepsake from her, "I am not sure if Sir Richard would wish it - but in case he does, could you preserve a lock of Miss Silverton's hair?" If they cannot retrieve the black pearl, then hopefully he shall accept that in its place - though even now Cromwell cannot avoid a rather uncertain thought that Rich only wants the pearl back because of the cost of it.
There are people about, for the evening is not too late. With all that has happened, it feels to Cromwell as though days have passed. How can it be that, only this afternoon, they were making facetious comments about the killer having a royal identity? Somehow, he wonders if he, or Rich, shall ever laugh again.
Rich's Manservant admits them, and confirms that his master is still sleeping, before offering them some sack, which they both politely decline.
Rich himself is stretched out on the bed, atop the covers, but with one of his warmer cloaks spread over him. His breathing is heavy, as would be expected from a drugged sleep; but at least he sleeps, and is not being forced to endure the pain of loss. Not yet, at least. Carefully, Butts takes his pulse, to ensure that he is not too deeply drugged, and nods, "He shall not wake until late tomorrow morning, I think. There is little we can do for him at this time - I suggest that you return to your quarters to rest."
Cromwell shakes his head, "You should rest. I shall remain here."
"He shall not wake, my Lord. There truly is no need."
"I think there is."
Butts sighs, then nods, bows and departs.
The room is silent but for the breathing of its occupants. Seated in a chair at the side of the bed, Cromwell watches sadly over the man whom he had once so disliked, but now regards as a friend. How strange that they should have bonded over a string of murders - but now, death has come calling upon them, and has struck at them with the cruellest of blows.
We must find him, he thinks, I cannot put Richard through another death after this. We must stop this - Kat must be the last. She has to be…
But still he does not know who he must stop. Until he does, how can he stop it?
Cromwell remains silent and still throughout the rest of the night. He is not sure if he has slept, though he thinks it likely that he has - even if only for the shortest of times. Rich has not stirred at any point, and is still unconscious. In some ways, Cromwell wishes that they could keep him like that until all is done - then he would not have to know if any more are killed.
He can see light emerging through a crack in the curtains, and knows that dawn has come. It shall still be early, for it is not yet the end of July - but at least there is light again. He had felt, during the night, that it might remain dark forever.
Rising from the chair, he steps out into the main chamber, where John is setting out bread, butter and some boiled eggs to be shelled, "I was not sure if Sir Richard would want to break his fast, my Lord, but I think he might not. These are, then, for you?"
Cromwell does not want to eat, but then he does not wish to appear rude, either, so he makes a small meal of one of the eggs, and a small chunk of buttered bread. As he rises, to return to the still silent bedchamber, there is a knock upon the door, and John admits a Steward armed with a note.
My Lord, I decided not to wait - for the King intends to hunt and is likely to demand the use of the cellar. I do not wish to raise hopes too high - but, it may be that we have some new evidence. Please come as swiftly as you may. WB.
Cromwell reads the note several times, attempting to take in the import of the words. His hopes are probably too high - but they have had so little. Now, perhaps, they might be about to turn a corner.