Chapter Twenty

 

Edward’s wheel-lock pistol glimmered in the dim light.

“Edward,” I stammered. “How could you?”

Anne dropped to her knees on the dirt floor, holding her stomach.

“Anne, are you all right?”

“I’m sick,” said Anne. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Anne, can I—”

Fast as lightening, Anne stood up and threw a fistful of dirt into Edward’s eyes. He dropped his pistol and recoiled, rubbing his eyes violently.

“Run!” said Anne.

I reached down and searched on the ground for his pistol. It was lying to the right of where he was standing. I grabbed it and ran with Anne towards the stairwell.

“Stop!” shouted Edward, rubbing his eyes.

Not wasting a moment, we climbed the spiral stairs as fast as we could. When we reached the top, we couldn’t find an exit. I stuffed the pistol into my jacket and began feeling along the walls for a latch.

“Look!” said Anne.

On the side wall, there was light outlining what seemed to be a small square door. Anne and I pushed on the square with all our might, and it opened. We were pleased to discover it led outside to the courtyard. It was almost night, and daylight was fading fast.

Dozens of people filled the courtyard, along with tents, wagons, and horses. Campfires dotted the courtyard, surrounded by people cooking their evening meal. I noticed a frightening figure staring at us. He was dressed all in black, with a waxy overcoat and square-topped hat. He was wearing a white mask with glass eye openings, and it had a strange long beak-shaped nose. He carried a cane in his hand.

“Who is that?” Anne asked a woman walking past us.

The woman glanced at the menacing figure. “Oh that?” she said. “That’s the Plague Doctor, that is. We all pooled our shillings and hired a plague doctor to come with us. Can’t be too careful these days, that’s what I say.”

The Plague Doctor walked towards us. Anne grabbed my arm and pulled me in another direction. We started walking between the tents and wagons, but the dark figure kept following us. We ducked into an empty tent, hoping he didn’t see us. We waited in silence for a moment until we felt the danger had passed.

“Why was he following us?” asked Anne.

Before I could answer, the tent door ripped opened and in walked the Plague Doctor. He ran to Anne and grabbed her.

“You take your hands off her!” I yelled. “Let her go!”

He turned, grabbed me, and hugged me tight. He then pulled back and removed his mask.

It was our oldest daughter, Susanna.

 

***

 

Susanna poured each of us a hot cup of tea as we sat in her private tent. Her long flaxen hair draped over her shoulders. I was struck by how much she resembled her mother.

“So,” said Susanna as she poured herself a cup of tea. “I realized that even though I’m an adult now, it would have been wise to have gone with you.”

“You are always welcome with us,” said Anne, smiling. “No matter how grown up you are.”

Susanna smiled back at her mother. “Anyway, I realized that if I were to survive this wave of the plague, I would have to get out of London. When I found out this group was going to seek asylum at Hampton Court Palace, I wanted to go. It’s a wealthy group, and I was aware I couldn’t afford to join them. Nor would I be accepted here on my own. But I convinced them to hire an experienced plague doctor to keep them safe.”

“You have medical training now?” asked Anne.

“No,” Susanna smiled. “But I’ve learned the art of acting from the best. I created a character, and I researched my role. I learned a lot about the plague. Fascinating. They think it is spread by miasma.”

“What’s miasma?” I asked.

“Miasma is foul air,” said Susanna. “It’s from the Greek, meaning ‘pollution.’”

“Oh yes,” said Anne. “Judith told me about that. She called it ‘night air.’”

“Oh, how is Judith?” said Susanna.

“She has had quite a few adventures since you last saw her,” said Anne. “In fact, we all have.”

“So, you convinced them you were a plague doctor,” I said, beaming with pride at the creativity of my daughter.

“Yes,” said Susanna. “But it was the costume that really sold them.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is impressive.”

“I wanted to fill them with awe,” said Susanna. “And I also wanted to protect myself from the plague.”

She stood and walked over to where her costume was hanging.

“The gloves would keep me from touching a sick person,” said Susanna. “And I could use the cane for the same purpose. The glass eye openings would keep out the miasma, the bad air. And the curved, bird-like beak is a kind of filter to keep me from breathing the foul and filthy air. I filled it with dried roses and carnations, along with eucalyptus, peppermint, and a thick vinegar sponge.”

“Brilliant,” I said.

“Thank you, father,” said Susanna. “I made two of the costumes, so I can clean one after inspecting someone for the plague. I keep the other one clean and ready, just in case.”

“Susanna,” I said. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Could your mother stay here with you tonight?”

“I would love that,” she said. “But why?”

“It’s a long story, but she will be safer here,” I said. “I’m going back into the palace, and your mother will fill you in on all that has happened.”

“Good idea,” said Anne. She stood and kissed me on my cheek. “Please be careful, Will.”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” I said. “This will all be over soon.”

Susanna gave me a hug and squeezed my hand.

“Don’t worry, father,” she said. “I will take good care of her here.”

I started to step out into the snowy night air, and then I turned back.

“One more thing,” I said, my breath flowing out in a white cloud. “Can I borrow one of your plague doctor costumes?”

 

***

 

It was late, and the palace was nearly empty as I made my way back to my room. Susanna’s plague doctor outfit was packed inside a bag, slung over my shoulder. I opened the door to my room and built a fire to ward off the cold. I was so tired and had to sleep. I ate a hard piece of bread and started to go to bed. But then I noticed a bottle of wine sitting on a small table next to my chair. I sat down facing the fire and picked up the bottle. There was a note tied to it. It said, “Thank you for your excellent work today.”

Well, I thought, at least someone appreciates what I’m trying to do.

There was a corkscrew next to the bottle, along with a quality crystal goblet. I pulled the cork on the bottle and poured a glass of wine. Normally I didn’t drink, but the wine’s bright red color called to me. It looked like a fine old bottle from King Henry VIII’s famous wine cellar. Taking a sip, I relaxed in my chair as I sat before the fireplace. And then I remembered the note that Violet stuffed in my hand when I was carrying Anne from the burning room. I patted my pocket, found the note, and took it out.

It read:

 

My dearest darling,

I am so sorry it had to end this way. In the morning, I will be hanged and then burned, along with our son, Thomas. Please take our daughters and leave Scotland. Go to England and change your last name, but please keep my namesake. I love you and our children. I look forward to seeing you all again one day in the next life.

Your loving wife,

Janet Wishart

 

I took a drink of wine. It was too sweet for my taste. I took another sip and looked at the glass in my hand, the fire burning behind it. And then two glasses of red wine were shining in the firelight. Two glasses of sweet red wine. Too sweet. A strange sweetness. I pulled the glass to my nose and sniffed. The sickly sweet scent of the vial I had found in the sacristy rose to meet my nostrils. I lost control of my hand, and it dropped, spilling the red wine. Time slowed and the fire flickered. My stomach cramped and my vision blurred. I realized then that I had made a fatal mistake. Someone had poisoned the wine. My body was shutting down.

I was dying.

My muscles tightened, and I couldn’t move. So, I thought. This is how it will end. I tried to call out, but could not. My vision dimmed. It would only be a matter of minutes before I would shuffle off this mortal coil. What would the next world be like? I didn’t know. But I wondered, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?

I knew I would only have a few more moments until I would pass into the undiscovered country. I wanted to solve the mystery before I died.

I thought of the murder in the chapel. Whoever did it was trying to kill the king. It wasn’t Malachi, my prime suspect. His brutal murder put an end to that theory. Could it have been one of the other Puritans? Or one of the bishops? It seemed unlikely. They all hoped for their side to win out. And they all stood showing their support for the king, despite the threatening ghost of the witch. But if not one of them, who? And why?

I thought of the note Violet gave me. It was a condemned wife’s last letter to her husband. What could it mean? Poor Violet. I wondered if she survived the fire. Her last words to me were, Tell them I’m sorry. Sorry for what? The letter was signed Janet Wishart, the witch of Aberdeen. But why would Violet have it? The note had advised Janet’s husband and their children to go to England and change their last names, but to be sure to keep her namesake.

And then I remembered something. Violet’s sister’s name was Janet. Janet. Janet Lewis. Janet Wishart. I thought back to my conversation with Violet’s two sisters in the bakery. Janet joked with her sister Elspet about wanting to be the queen of England one day. And I remembered the words of the ghost of Janet Wishart, If anyone is crowned Queen of England, it should be me, not her. I recalled that the ghost had the same sickly sweet smell of the vial from the sacristy. And of the hallway before the murder. And of the physician’s room, where they took the murdered priest’s body. And of the—pain shot through my stomach—and of the glass of wine I just drank.

So, Janet Lewis must have pretended to be the ghost of her mother to get revenge on Malachi. Her sister Violet must have told her about the plan for her to play the ghost. Janet did what Violet didn’t have the constitution to do. They must have drugged Anne to have full control of the situation. And then Violet came and sat with me to give herself an alibi.

My vision became a tunnel. The roaring fire looked like a tiny speck on the distant horizon. My head throbbed, and I felt waves of hot and cold sweep over me. What was I just thinking about? Oh yes, the murderer.

Violet Lewis is an herbalist. She knows about medicines—and poisons. She told Richard and me about belladonna and henbane. Sleeping potions if used in small amounts, but deadly if used in larger quantities. And the white powder that Richard found in Gallery Hall, after the ghost sighting in the hallway. It was flour. Ordinary flour.

That’s it. Janet and Elspet were bakers. They must have staged the ghost sighting in Gallery Hall as a diversion. The hallway is outside the royal chapel. The “ghost” appeared right before the deadly Communion service. It would have given the killer a chance to poison the chalice. The same sickly sweet scent was in the hallway, and in the vial I found in the sacristy. Whoever poisoned the chalice must have had access to the sacristy.

Oh no, I thought. Could it be Alban? He was the sexton; he would have access to the chalice. But he didn’t have a motive or the inclination. It seemed unlikely. My intuition said no.

Who else would have had access to the chalice? Jeremiah Talbot. But he pledged his support to the king in front of everyone, even while under duress. And he believes strongly in the divine right of kings. So, if it wasn’t the assisting priest or the sexton, it must have been a servant. And not just any servant, but one with a certain amount of freedom. But they would also need access to the poison, knowledge of its use, and a motive.

I was out of time. My eyes closed as the last drop of life slipped out of me.

“That’s it,” I thought as I breathed my last breath.

“The killer is Myles Lewis.”