‘I have no great pretence to being entirely honest myself,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I do not aspire to the humility of common trust. Although I have no intention of explaining the precise purpose of our expedition today, or the need for our subterfuge, you must have gathered that, falsehoods apart, I considered the occasion and its success particularly important. Naturally I have reasons, but my reasons are my own. One day I may tell you more. But I know my tenants well, and I know their levels of dishonesty. I ask you not to share my secrets with anyone else, either here or elsewhere.’
‘I won’t. I promise. Do you trust me?’
They had reached the doorway. He pushed open the doors and stood back smiling. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But you may earn my trust, if you wish.’
Tyballis now took the chair beside the fire and smiled at Davey. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to tell me what you know about our landlord, Mister Lyttle. It seems most odd for a man with no wealth to own such a grand house, and then to open it freely to a parcel of beggars and thieves who pay him no rent at all. Mister Cobham is clearly a man of secrets. I don’t wish to interfere with his secrets, but it is all rather intriguing. How long have you known him?’
Davey grinned. ‘Long enough. Doesn’t mean I know much about the man. He comes and goes, but goes more than he comes and he’s certainly out most nights. Once I saw him burying something in the garden, but I never asked and never looked. I’ve a feeling our Mister Cobham might not be such a generous host should he ever consider his privacy threatened.’
Felicia Spiers peered around the open door. ‘Tyballis, dear, such a nice fire. And the enticing smell of cooking.’
Both Tyballis and Davey shook their heads. ‘Drew bought her a pie from the Ordinary,’ Davey told Felicia. ‘Eaten an hour back. We must content ourselves with the aroma alone.’
Tyballis stood and took Felicia’s arm. ‘But come in by the fire. I’ve no wish to be alone with Davey, I assure you.’
Felicia took the chair Tyballis had left. ‘I shan’t stay long. Poor dearest Jon, you know, is tired and quite unwell. He has been most helpful to me today, speaking to me most sympathetically about the baby’s health, and has promised to assist me if little Gyles is sick again. But now my dear husband’s quite exhausted and must rest. Naturally he’s hoping I will return with supper, since we’ve had nothing at all for dinner. If dear Mister Cobham is at home now, perhaps I should go down and have a quiet word.’
‘Well, he’s in,’ said Davey. ‘But Mistress Blessop refuses to divulge what he and she have been up to for the best part of the day.’
‘You should not be prying, Davey Lyttle,’ said Felicia with a sniff. ‘And since dear Tyballis is not anything at all like that good-for-nothing Elizabeth, I can only be sure they have been indulging some entirely innocent pastime. Isn’t that so, my dear?’
Tyballis nodded. ‘And I’m exceedingly sorry Mister Spiers isn’t feeling well. The children are fine, I hope?’
‘They will be, if I find them something to eat,’ Felicia said.
Margery Blessop had spent the past four days furiously attempting admittance into Throckmorton House and had finally achieved entrance through the kitchens. ‘You’re a tiresome woman, Mistress Blessop,’ John Knody told her. ‘And if you dare inform his lordship how you managed to set foot in his private quarters, I shall skewer you on the spit and roast you with onions for his dinner.’
Taking immediate advantage of the chief cook’s benevolence before he changed his mind, Margery scuttled through the pantries and found the main hall unlit and empty. It was the steward, Bodge, who discovered her. Since she was closely examining a tall silver candlestick at that precise moment, her presence was not warmly received. The steward recognised the woman he had managed to get rid of several times already over previous days. Bodge had therefore taken hold of her arm and began to drag her towards the main doors. Margery Blessop wedged both heels into the Turkey rug and wrestled desperately.
His lordship the new Baron Throckmorton, hearing an unexpected commotion, entered his hall to find his steward in an unseemly struggle with an elderly and unknown woman. Her headdress had become unattached in the struggle and she was red-faced from the exertion. On seeing the baron, she quickly flung herself at his feet.
‘Oh my lord,’ spluttered Mistress Blessop from the floorboards, ‘I’ve come to explain the terrible death of your late noble brother. But this heartless man will not listen. I beg your lordship to hear my story. It is a matter of life and death, sir.’
Throckmorton regarded the dishevelled creature at his feet. Her hair was grizzled, her eyes were teary and her nose was large and damp. He resisted the urge to kick her. ‘Get up, woman,’ he objected. ‘What are you blubbering about? Bodge, this female will first explain herself and then you will throw her out.’
Margery got up as far as her knees. ‘I am Borin Blessop’s mother, my lord. He was a loyal servant to your brother the baron, and never did him harm, I swear it.’ Throckmorton made impatient gestures to his steward, and Margery gabbled on in a hurry. ‘It’s my daughter-in-law did it, my lord. That is, she murdered your brother, wicked harlot that she is. I can prove it, my lord. You can avenge your brother’s death, and exonerate my boy Borin at the same time. And,’ she added quickly, ‘overcome any possible accusation to your own noble self that might possibly arise when my dear son is proved innocent at his trial.’
Throckmorton sniffed. ‘What are you blathering about, woman? You stink of garlic.’ But he waved Bodge back.
‘My Borin’s wife,’ Margery said. ‘She’s a hussy and a whore, and has murdered your brother, my lord. She had an assignation with him that night, a sordid business as you can guess, sir. I cannot know what went wrong, but perhaps he refused to pay her, since her services were no doubt of – inferior quality. So, she stabbed him. I can prove it.’
‘You saw this?’ demanded the baron in amazement. ‘Or she confessed?’
‘Not exactly,’ Margery Blessop admitted. ‘But what’s the word of a whore against that of a respectable mother? Besides, I could force her to confess if I ever got my hands on her scrawny neck. She’s been a blight on my house ever since she married my boy. And she was out all that night, out on her own in the rain and the dark. No decent woman tramps the cold streets of London on her own at night. Then she came sneaking back in the small hours, drenched to the skin and wearing a cape she’d stolen from some customer. A man’s cape. Perhaps his lordship’s.’
Throckmorton shook his head, hiding a small malicious smile. ‘A vile creature indeed. And to think it was her I gave money to, just a few days afterwards. That was thanks to – well, enough of that. But I shall not forget – not him, interfering bastard. Nor the trollop.’ The baron scratched his nose, imagining the pleasures of multiple retributions. ‘What was it like, this cloak?’ he asked. ‘And where is it now?’
‘A fine cloak, my lord, such as your brother might have worn. Crimson velvet, I seem to remember, and fur-trimmed.’ Margery bit her lip. ‘I noticed a bloodstain on it myself, where the poor sainted body was stabbed through, though being red on red as it were, was not immediately noticeable. But unfortunately, my lord, the cape is gone. The wench sold it. Got a tidy sum, and then ran away. And if you gave her some money from the kindness of your heart, my lord, then she took that, too. I’ve not seen her since. Left her own home, and abandoned her poor innocent husband starving in Newgate. Now that’s proof of her vile guilt, if ever proof was needed.’
Harold, Baron Throckmorton pursed his lips and glared. ‘Then you’ve neither bloodstained cape nor culprit to hand me,’ he said. ‘This is a useless story.’