A/N: thanks for your review, Starfire201 - yes, they're in quite a fix now, aren't they? Fitzroy's onto them, so what's to be done?
P.S. - For those awaiting the arrival of Suffolk into this tale, your forbearance shall shortly be rewarded...
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Burglary as a Last Resort
Cromwell sets the abandoned papers upon Rich's desk, and wonders if his friend truly intends to leave Court, or shall return at some point in the next hour or so and quietly apologise. He shall do nothing until he knows one way or the other. Rich has few friends, and thus it is unlikely that anyone other than the King shall miss him - and even in the King's case, that would merely be thanks to having no one to do Rich's work until a replacement is appointed.
If only that chain could be enough; but it is not. With the lack of anything else that they can find, it is the coffer now or nothing. With no means of searching Fitzroy's apartments, however, that means that it is - effectively - nothing. They are stymied by their inability to reach the one piece of evidence that might grant them all that they need to bring this hideous matter to an end.
He is not sure when he first notices the muttering at the other end of the offices, as the Clerks are gathering, sharing some spoken information and moving on, their expressions shocked. Knowing that they shall scatter, and thus grant him nothing, Cromwell stays where he is, and watches surreptitiously for the news to spread to one of the boys that is most likely to tell him what he needs to know later on.
Matters are, however, unexpectedly expedited by Wriothesley, who comes into the offices and finds himself in the midst of a gaggle of Clerks, who quickly scatter, but for one - who is not quick enough and is grasped by the ear.
"What is so exciting that you have abandoned your work to discuss it?" he asks, marching the youth through the offices to Cromwell's desk.
"Something that Daniel overheard, my Lord," the boy says, grimacing at the pain, "The Chancellor, Mr Rich - arrested for killing those women."
"Mr Rich?" Cromwell asks, sharply, "Arrested - by whom?"
"Someone said it was the Duke of Richmond, my Lord." The boy adds, then utters a sharp squeal as Wriothesley twists his ear, "It's the truth, my Lord! That is what was said!"
"Let him be, Mr Wriothesley." Cromwell says, calmly, "I shall make some enquiries. It seems most odd to me - and I do not need to be without Mr Rich at his desk."
Once out of the offices, however, Cromwell is no longer calm. It is clear what has happened - crystal clear. When Rich noticed the chain about Fitzroy's neck, the youth saw him - and realised what he was thinking. Rich would have been utterly incapable of keeping his expression neutral at the sight of that. And now he is in Fitzroy's hands…
And how long shall it be before he, Cromwell, joins him? They have been investigating this together - and their about face from enmity to friendship has hardly been missed. What does it matter that one of the victims was Rich's mistress?
None see him as he enters the investigation room and locks himself in. With luck, people shall think he has gone to ground. It is, after all, not going to be long before he is accosted. Not as an accomplice - that is for certain - but almost certainly as the master of the plan: none would believe that Rich would be the one in charge.
He sits at the desk, but does not light a candle, instead letting the late afternoon dimness conceal him in its growing grip. Fitzroy has Rich - and God knows what shall happen to him now. If the Duke has not yet understood the depth of the investigation against him, then how long before he does? Would Rich tell him? Not at first - but he knows that Rich is not strong, and Fitzroy shall not care one jot that he is a Privy Councillor. If he wants to use coercion, then he shall. That said, he may know already…
"Damn you. Damn you to hell, Fitzroy." He says, aloud, "God help me - if you are to destroy me, then I shall take you with me. If you are throwing the law aside to do what you want, then so shall I."
He has one hope. One: the coffer. If he can find that, and it has the degree of evidence that he has been seeking, then he might yet salvage this disaster and save all. But he must find it…
He must, therefore, break into Fitzroy's apartments.
Most of the Court are gravitating towards the Hall, where supper shall be served in the next hour or so. Thus, the corridors are largely empty. His eyes watchful, Cromwell makes his way through the darkening passages with care. He has abandoned his fine simarre, and his magnificent - and highly distinctive - Collar of Esses; hoping that the encroaching dimness shall hide the brocading of his doublet, and give the impression that he is another of the many anonymous servants that make their way between the apartments of the high-born.
He knows where Fitzroy is lodged - in the apartments reserved for the Prince of Wales, which had once been Mary's domain. His one hope, since Fitzroy is gone, is that the retinue shall also not be present, for if they are - then all is lost, and he can do nothing more than flee the palace, and thus Rich shall almost certainly die.
I cannot…will not let that happen.
With Fitzroy absent, the guards that have been set at his door are standing off to the side, engrossed in a game of dice. While he would, ordinarily, be furious with them for such dereliction of duty, today he would more willingly recommend them for a commendation - so helpful is their behaviour to his needs.
Entering the apartments is a simple matter, and then he stops. If Fitzroy's retinue are not here, then they are almost certainly with him. And if they are…
"God, oh my God…I beg you, keep him safe…" Cromwell whispers aloud, for in that single moment, he knows now that, no matter what happens, Rich's situation has become horribly bleak.
If that is so, then he must be quick - and he must, must, find that damned coffer. Where might it be? He always has it with him. He cannot possibly have taken it to the Tower. It must still be here…where…where?
Then he remembers: Gresham was obliged to hide in a closet to avoid Fitzroy's mortifications - in the bedchamber. It must be there. Caution cast aside, Cromwell throws open doors to find the room he seeks, and comes across the room he needs at he third he tries.
The room is large, well carpeted and richly furnished with the finest pieces that money can buy. Given the prior occupant, many of the items seem more attuned to a female occupant in terms of decoration, but they look most lavish, and that is more than suitable for a man wedded to such finery.
As his eyes cast about, Cromwell notices the small prie dieu, set aside behind a screen. It faces a small table upon which sit two candlesticks - each with a fresh candle set ready, and a remarkably ornate crucifix - Popish items that he is so keen to overturn. He scowls, then shakes himself. Now is not the time for petty prejudices. His life could be at stake, and Rich's most certainly.
There are various sideboards, cupboards and closets about the room, presumably to contain the large numbers of suits of clothing that Fitzroy seems to have accumulated. Abandoning all care in his haste, Cromwell snatches at handles, wrenching open doors, yanking out drawers, turning out dressers. It has to be here…it must be…
But it is not - or if it is, it has been hidden. Cursing sulphurously, Cromwell burrows into a large closet that contains furs for the coming winter. The coffer is not immediately visible, but instead he finds a large travelling box that seems rather well used given that there are no scratch marks to show that it has been shifted recently…
"Please be in there." He begs, silently, "God, please let it be in there…"
And he stops dead. An ebony box - large enough to hold papers, or possibly relics. Carved with religious icons and scenes.
He has found it. He has it…
Trembling, Cromwell bends and lifts the item from its hiding place. As Gresham and Mount told, it is secured with a padlock of intriguing design - one with a set of four dials. Each has a sequence of numbers upon it, and he has no idea whether the lock has been set or not. Whatever is in it, it is something that Fitzroy most certainly does not want to be found.
If that is so, then the contents can hardly be innocent - can they?
Setting the coffer upon Fitzroy's bed, Cromwell regards it. Much as he would enjoy the intellectual challenge of attempting to unfasten the padlock, he has not the time. Rich has not the time. Such a pity, too - for it is an antique.
His eyes vicious, Cromwell looks about for something to prise the padlock away - but finds only the heavy, gold candlesticks. With no other option, he sets the coffer on the floor, plucks the candle from the right hand stick, and begins to pound its base against the body of the lock, in the hopes of forcibly separating it from the shank.
It feels as though it shall take forever, and bring the entire palace into the room, so much noise does he make - but, at last, after he has long lost count of the strikes, the shank snaps from the body, and the lock can be removed.
"What are you hiding, then?" Cromwell mutters, as he lifts the lid.
Papers. Lots of papers…all of them in Fitzroy's rather angular, spiky hand. He has seen it enough times to know it.
She screamed. Screamed lots of times…I stuck her in the belly…she screamed more and more…
Cromwell stares at the words, his eyes widening. Not this - God above…he has it. The confession he needs. It is a full confession…but to read this? God help him, it is appalling - for it gets worse and worse as the words snake onwards down the page. Brutality he never thought a man could bring upon any other being, man, woman or child…
Trembling, he lifts the paper, only for it to droop, the top right corner refusing to lift. Bemused, he reaches in to take it, and finds a small vial attached. The right corner of the pile is curled upwards, and he realises that each paper is treated the same, a small glass vial attached to the right corner…
Squinting at the small receptacle, Cromwell eyes the brown, powdery substance within. He has been a soldier: he knows desiccated blood when he sees it. Christ above - Fitzroy has not taken merely jewels - he has taken a sample of blood, too…
Painfully, he continues to read, taking in the horror and wishing that he could not. He wants to put it down - but he must know.
The woman, it seems, was a local farmer's wife - taken from her home while her husband was away in the fields. She was brutally ravished, and then slaughtered, at Collyweston - just a day before Fitzroy commenced his journey back to Placentia. It is, then, up to date…
Should he read it? Should he?
His hands shaking, Cromwell burrows into the coffer. He does not have to go far.
Her voice was fearful, but she was braver than the others. It must be because of her ugly pocks. She clasped at me, as they do, but much tighter - by the bottom of my doublet. As I went into her she said: I love you Richie. I love you more than the world. I will always love you. Never forget me. And then her blood was drained.
"Oh Christ." Cromwell moans, faintly, and drops the paper back. Even at the last, Kat thought only of the man she loved. Perhaps she kept her thoughts upon him to help her endure that which was to come. He fights with himself not to shed tears: that brave, brave woman. The others might not have known what was to happen to them - but she did - and still she thought only of Richard, and did all that she could to help them…
It goes on, and on and on. Page after page of horrors that he never could have imagined. It is not just the five women at Court - they were part of a long cavalcade of violence and savagery that began barely a few months after the Duke was married.
It is always the same - each woman is selected at random. He had thought that it was because the women at court were engaged in activities that Fitzroy found immoral - but perhaps not? Perhaps that was merely incidental to the fact that they were - as women - fundamentally corrupted and in need of, in his terms at least, cleansing?
The papers do not detail how he comes upon the women, nor how he departs once they are dead; that still remains a mystery. From the papers, however, it is clear that Fitzroy knows he must not permit his victims in the Palaces to make too much noise, so he bleeds them out - carrying out his vile acts as they lose consciousness. Those who are held in his house are far less fortunate - for they remain awake until he begins the evisceration and finally ends their torment. At least, he supposes, Kat did not have to suffer that.
Cromwell pauses and looks around the chamber for some form of receptacle, for he is convinced that he shall vomit. God above…dear God above…what is this man? Why? Why has he done this? Why is he so utterly depraved? Is it because he was married, or did it happen anyway - with the marriage being merely coincidental?
Trembling, sweat upon his brow, he concentrates for a few minutes on simply breathing in and out, until the urge to heave out the contents of his stomach has passed. No matter what he has done, no matter what he has seen in his life - and he has seen the bloodiest of deaths - there is nothing he has ever encountered that could come close to this in its horror. Those men who break down the walls of a besieged city and rampage within it are at least driven by bloodlust that has risen while they have thought themselves doomed to die in the vanguard - but this…this was planned, calculated…celebrated…
Finally, he forces himself to view the end of the paper that relates to Louise Knotte. And there it is - the proof that they need that the items were not gifts from lovers.
And my gain from her was an emerald pin that held her hood.
He knows what he shall find on the paper relating to Kat.
And my gain from her was a black pearl set in gold.
Cromwell sits on the side of Fitzroy's bed. The papers are back in the coffer, and he wants never to see them again - but there is only one thing he can do now. He must take them to the King - and quickly. Fitzroy might prefer to kill women, but he has not drawn the line in taking the lives of men where necessary. Has he not whipped two servants to death?
There is, however, one thing that he knows he cannot do. He must never, ever, permit Rich to see the paper relating to Kat.
Suddenly feeling very tired, he sets the lid back onto the coffer, and rises from the bed to lift it - but stops.
Footsteps.
His eyes determined, Cromwell turns to face the door; but it is not a member of Fitzroy's retinue, nor his servants.
"Your Grace." He says, quietly, as Charles Brandon stands in the doorway, his expression hard. Behind the Duke, four guards are waiting. It is to be an arrest, then. Damn - he must have been seen entering the apartments after all.
"My Lord Cromwell." Brandon responds, "I am sent to arrest you for the murder of five women…"
"On what evidence?" Cromwell interrupts.
"I am sent," he resumes, more firmly, "to arrest you for the murder of five women: Miss Anne Hamme, Miss Louise Knotte, Miss Sarah Culver, Miss Elizabeth Milton and Miss Kathryn Silverton. You are to be conveyed to the Tower."
"On what evidence?" Cromwell repeats, equally firmly.
"I am sent by the King." Brandon advises, as though this explains all.
"You have not answered my question, your Grace."
"His Grace, the Duke of Richmond, has been undertaking investigations into the recent murders at court. He has found that, under the pretence of acting as the investigators into these crimes, you, with Sir Richard Rich as your accomplice, have been the perpetrator throughout."
"On what evidence?" Cromwell says, speaking each word slowly, and deliberately. He knows that there is none - but he also knows that, for the King, Fitzroy's word is evidence enough, "He has acted first, then."
Brandon looks at him, bemused, "Who has acted first?"
"Fitzroy. He knew that we had discovered him, and acted first to remove us and save himself." Despite everything, Cromwell remains absolutely calm. Panicking shall not help him now. He must keep his focus - to save himself, and then to save Rich.
"That is your word. I have those of his Grace, the Duke of Richmond, and his Majesty the King."
"I have irrefutable proof to the contrary." Cromwell retorts, "It is in this room, and it shows clearly who has really committed these crimes."
"Proof that you claim exists - but that has been found in this room by you, with no witnesses other than a chambermaid who saw you enter these chambers in a secretive fashion."
"You are my witness."
"Enough. You are under arrest." He turns to the four guards, "Seize him."
The guards surround Cromwell, and two of them take him by his arms, "Damn you, Charles Brandon! Do you not care for those who have died? Do you think there are but five? There are others; many others! At least fifty! He has been killing for a year or more - it was only here that he was kept down to just those who died in the palaces! It's in the coffer! Do you want to be the man who allowed a lunatic free rein to destroy England? Read the papers in that damned, bloody coffer, you stupid, fucking idiot!"
It is not the protest that halts the Duke, but the abandonment of formality. Cromwell is, after all, the soul of formality to those of higher standing than he, but to refer to him by name, and then to hurl so many profanities at him? He stares at Cromwell. Despite his deep dislike of the man, there is no mistaking the sincerity in his face; or the desperation that would drive him to be so insulting to a man of higher station. He is not such a fool as to do that without reason.
Frowning, cautious, Brandon reaches down and lifts the lid of the coffer. Reaching in, he lifts the first of the many papers within, and begins to read the horrible tale of an innocent farmer's wife, taken from her home into a living hell…
Still held by the guards, Cromwell watches as Brandon's expression begins to change from annoyance to horror. He reaches in for another paper, and then another, growing more and more appalled with each page that he reads.
"We knew of the coffer, your Grace." Cromwell says, quietly, still held by the guards, "We did not know what was in it, but we thought it might be the key to all. I could not have imagined that it could contain what you are reading."
"You could have planted this." Brandon offers, though only half-heartedly.
"Rich was arrested barely two hours ago. How could I possibly have accumulated and planted this in such a time? Do you not know Fitzroy's writing? It is hardly nondescript."
"Show me what else you have."
"Fitzroy has Rich, your Grace. Time is of the essence."
"Perhaps so, but if we are to save him, we must gain the confidence of the King. Show me what else you have." He makes a small gesture, and the Guards release their grip.
The candles flicker in the investigation room, casting strange shadows across the walls - and across Brandon's face as he reads the papers that Rich has so carefully transcribed. The post-mortem reports, the statements; all of it, including those taken from Gresham and Mount.
"It was from they that we discovered the existence of the coffer." Cromwell says, quietly, "When I heard of Rich's arrest, I knew we had but one opportunity to save ourselves. I had to find it."
"May God have mercy upon us…" Brandon whispers, genuflecting, "The King believed Fitzroy without asking for a shred of evidence - all he was required to do was give a name. He spoke only of Sir Richard - but the King realised that you and he have been working together for many months. If one was involved, then it was, in his mind, inevitable that the other was, also."
"Fitzroy had no evidence upon which to base his accusation, your Grace." Cromwell urges, "I, on the other hand, do. If we do not act quickly, then Rich shall almost certainly die - and as cruelly as his mistress did. Fitzroy has whipped servants to death for the most trivial of offences - what on earth might he do if he has access to the instruments in the Tower?"
Brandon stares at him, appalled.
"Help me, your Grace. I cannot bring this to the King alone, for I have no doubt that he shall refuse to believe me. Stand with me - for you are his greatest friend. If we are to destroy all that he has ever believed about his beloved son, then he should have you at his side to share that burden. I cannot do this alone."
They stand opposite one another, for what seems like an eternity, their enmity fighting with the need to save a life, and prevent a madman from gaining a place in the English Succession.
"If Fitzroy can do this while still an illegitimate son - then imagine what he might do once he is legitimised, and in reach of the Crown." Cromwell adds, a little desperately, "Are you not as concerned for the safety of the other royal children as you appeared to be when last I spoke to you? For the love of God - what is to stop him taking steps to claim the Crown for himself once he is declared to be of the Blood? I once thought this was merely to save the lives of the women of the Court - but now, I cannot help but wonder if all of England is at stake."
"Do you think he has planned this?" Brandon asks.
"No, not to the degree that he has foreseen all and taken account of it to reach a predetermined aim - but he has been made to consider himself invincible, beloved and even chosen by God. If he believes that, then what is to stop him believing that God has chosen him to rule this realm? It is more than mere murders now - for if he can kill so casually, where might he stop? He has one of the Privy Councillors at his mercy - would that give him a taste for winnowing his way through those of us who might stop him on legal or political grounds? It has become far greater than I ever thought might happen - and it might seem like a mad fantasy. Perhaps it is; though I do not think that to be so. Not now."
Brandon's face falls, and he sighs.
"Nor do I."