Amy Robsart, the only heir of the Duke of Norfolk, fell in love with Robert Dudley, third son of the Earl of Leicester, and in 1550, at the age of eighteen, she married him in a grand wedding attended by the boy king Edward VI. “The Prince and the Pauper,” muttered Elizabeth, whose knowledge of history was heavily reinforced by popular fiction.
The young couple lived together in the country, seemingly happy, and certainly wealthy. At the death of Amy’s father, she inherited his considerable fortune. There was trouble for them, when Dudley was imprisoned for taking part in the Lynn Rebellion, but by and by he was released and they went home to the country once more.
In 1558 Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne, and Robert Dudley was summoned to court. First he was made Master of the Horse, and then a Knight of the Garter. He was constantly in the company of the queen. Amy stayed at home in the country. Soon it was common gossip in the court that the queen was familiar with Dudley, and people began to speculate on whether he would divorce his wife to marry the Virgin Queen. Ambassadors reported home that England would soon have a King Consort.
On September 4, 1560, the queen remarked that Lord Robert’s wife was exceedingly ill, and perhaps already dead. In fact, twenty-eight-year-old Amy was in perfect health at Cumnor Hall-but four days later she lay dead at the foot of the main staircase with a broken neck.
“The queen was an accessory before the fact,” murmured Elizabeth. “I wonder what Rowan will say about that?”
Rowan, who was somewhat tired from his morning train ride, and even more preoccupied with more current intrigues, looked completely horrified at his seatmate’s suggestion that Queen Elizabeth was an accessory to murder. “Nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it.”
“But how do you explain the fact that she knew Amy Robsart was going to die four days in advance?”
“Amy Rob-oh!” Rowan reddened. “That Queen Elizabeth. I thought you meant the Queen Mum. Sorry, I must have drifted off for a moment.”
It was a clear day, with a chill wind making it cooler than usual, as the coach sped eastward out of Shropshire and back toward Oxford, which even in Amy Robsart’s time was considered within commuting distance of London.
“Well?” said Elizabeth. “Was she murdered?”
With considerable effort the guide turned his attention to the conversation. “Who? Oh, Amy Robsart? Yes, of course she was murdered. Wives never fling themselves down staircases just because one has one’s eye on a new bird.” He spoke with heartfelt sincerity. “At least mine never do.”
“I thought her death was rather convenient. Wealthy little Amy dies, leaving her husband with a fortune and with the freedom to marry his sovereign, untainted by the divorce courts.”
“He wasn’t home at the time,” Rowan pointed out.
Elizabeth snorted. “Would you be?”
“No. I suspect that his henchman-in-residence, Forster, did the deed, and that it was all hushed up at the inquest, which Dudley stage-managed personally. All the documents concerning the inquiry into Amy Robsart’s death were destroyed, you know, so we can’t very well second-guess the case from this century. But perhaps the most damaging writing about the case was an anonymous bit of libel called Leicester’s Commonwealth. Copies of it went round England like a naughty chain letter. That book called Lord Robert an adulterer, a murderer, an atheist, a coward. Just about every bit of invective imaginable. And even before that book appeared, people were scandalized by Amy’s convenient death, so the queen had to give up her intention of marrying him-if indeed she had ever meant to. She was very sharp in public relations, was Gloriana.”
“Can we go and see Cumnor Place?” asked Elizabeth. “It’s just outside Oxford.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rowan. “You are several hundred years too late. Not even the ruins remain, and I have no idea where the hall itself actually stood. It’s probably a street of bungalows these days. But Amy herself is buried in St. Mary’s Church on the high street in Oxford, if you’d like to pay your respects.”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “I will.”
They had a cold afternoon’s walk at another medieval ruin, Minster Lovell Hall, a roofless stone shell on the banks of the River Windrush. The stately ruins lay in pastoral solitude in an expanse of meadow, bordered by the little country Church of St. Kenelm, resting place of the manor’s builder. As they walked about the site, chivvied by the wind, Rowan told them Minster Lovell’s romantic tale: the discovery in 1708 of the body of the last Lord Lovell, hidden away in a secret room.
“That was silly!” Susan Cohen declared. “Did they forget where they put him? It was the English Civil War, wasn’t it? I know about priests’ holes from The Gyrth Chalice Mystery by Margery Allingham-”
“No,” said Rowan hastily. “Francis, Viscount Lovell, was somewhat ahead of his time on that score. He supported an impostor named Lambert Simnel, who attempted to depose Henry VII. You remember Henry VII?”
“Fiberglass statue in Exeter,” said Alice MacKenzie.
“People have been remembered for less,” said Rowan without missing a beat. “Anyhow, Simnel was defeated, and the viscount conveniently disappeared. Otherwise, he’d have been executed. Apparently, he was concealed in a secret room here at Minster Lovell, but unluckily for him, the one servant who knew his whereabouts died suddenly, and Viscount Francis was never found. His bones were finally discovered two hundred years later.”
“And after he meets the Gyrth’s heir in the book, Albert Campion has to protect this gold cup that has been hidden in the house since ancient times-”
Rowan stopped and looked at her. “What did you say?”
Susan repeated her summary of the Margery Allingham plot, in which the Gyrth family must retain and display an ancient golden cup of mystic significance in order to keep their lands.
When she had wound down, the guide smiled. “Well, Susan,” he said, “at last I am able to contribute something in your area of interest. Apparently your mystery author based her tale on the tradition of a house called Nanteos, near Capel Seion in Wales. Until recently its owners displayed an ancient wooden cup, said to possess miraculous healing powers. Now do be quiet.”
Susan opened her mouth and shut it again.
“What happened to the viscount of Minster Lovell?” asked Frances Coles quickly.
“I’m afraid he starved to death in his hiding place.”
“And where is the secret room?” asked Charles, fingering his camera lens.
“I’ve no idea,” Rowan replied. “There isn’t enough left of the building to tell us, either.”
“Too bad,” said Elizabeth, eyeing the still-prattling Susan.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Rowan.
As they drove through Cumnor that afternoon, Elizabeth scoured the landscape for a sign of stately ruins-an old gatepost, perhaps, or a lone chimney-but Amy Robsart’s residence had apparently been swallowed up by modern developments, and she could find no trace of the scene of the crime. Her disappointment was short-lived, however, for twenty minutes later Bernard announced, somewhat unnecessarily, that they had arrived in Oxford.
He navigated the busy streets, clogged with rush hour traffic, and set them down in Beaumont Street, at the door of the Randolph Hotel. Susan was rattling on about Colin Dexter and someone called Inspector Morse, but everyone contrived to ignore her. Rowan drowned her out, explaining that the neo-Gothic hotel was built in 1864 and was named after Dr. Francis Randolph, a principal of Merton College. “In the Spires Restaurant, you will find the coats of arms of all the colleges,” he told them. “After I check you in, you are at liberty until tomorrow morning. I’ll take you on a formal tour tomorrow, but do go out exploring on your own this afternoon. The shops are open,” he added wickedly.