The inquest on poor Philip took place the next day, at the Guildhall in Guildford. His employer, Master Samuel Hartley, had taken on the responsibility of seeing that the business was properly arranged.
This had been done in an orderly fashion which showed respect for Philip, and I sensed that Brockley approved. Every member of the jury looked like a man of substance. Indeed, I recognized several faces, as I had a wide local acquaintance. One of them was the landlord of the Tun Inn, opposite the Guildhall, which was where I had left our coach and pair. We had used the coach because Dale and Sybil wished to attend and neither liked riding, even pillion. It made them stiff.
As far as I could tell, all of the jurors were Guildford men, but among those in the crowd who had come to hear the proceedings I saw my friend Christopher Spelton, whose home at West Leys was several miles away.
I also noticed a man who interested me because he looked as if he had some importance. He was very well dressed and dignified, discreet in dark blue, but his doublet was quilted and its material was surely satin, and his pristine ruff was edged with elegant blackwork. He was in his middle years and I felt sure that if he were a Surrey man, as he must be, it was odd that I had never met him. He was striking to look at because, though no longer young, he wasn’t ancient, either, yet he had a thick head of completely white hair and his bushy eyebrows and his moustache were completely white too. The effect was odd: he looked as if he had been left out in a snowstorm. Very often, white-haired people still have brown eyebrows, and the men are likely to have some brown still remaining in their beards and moustaches. This man had not a single brown hair, as far as I could see, although he was not an albino, for his complexion was slightly olive and his eyes, which I could see from where I sat, were bright blue.
The proceedings weren’t lengthy. Philip had been found slain by a crossbow. The bolt was still in his body, but it was of a commonplace pattern and offered no clue as to its origin. No one had made threats against him; he was not known to have any enemies, and the body had not been robbed. A purse containing quite a good sum of money had been attached to his belt. I was seated with the Brockleys and Sybil, and we all kept very still when Master Hartley bore witness to the fact that he knew of no one who could wish Philip Sandley ill – for my son Harry probably did! And although I had not actually wished to harm young Philip, I certainly had had a great deal against him and hadn’t wanted him under my roof, either. It was only for Brockley’s sake that I hadn’t reported his perfidy to the authorities.
Brockley was called next. Standing stiffly and speaking in a very calm, very inexpressive voice, he testified that yes, he was Philip’s father. Yes, Philip had for a while worked at Hawkswood.
‘He had an opportunity, though, for a better paid post with Master Hartley and decided to take it,’ said Brockley, not altogether mendaciously, for he really had been more highly paid at Reddings House.
In the end, the jury returned a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown, and that was that. Sir Edward Heron’s men would continue to ask questions, but unless they found anything to point to the killer’s identity the whole thing would eventually fade out.
One of the jurors – not one I knew – did suggest that Philip’s death might have been an accident. ‘He was found among trees, so we’ve been told. Some irresponsible youth fooling about with a crossbow may have mistaken a movement among the trees for a deer and shot Master Sandley by mistake.’
This, however, was quashed by a weatherbeaten man in a sleeveless leather jerkin, seated near me, who promptly rose to his feet to say that he was a local farmer, knew everyone who lived within a few miles of his land and did not know of any irresponsible youths – or greybeards either – who were likely to be wandering about in the district and shooting wildly with a crossbow, even at deer, though it wouldn’t do any harm if they did shoot some deer, considering the damage they could do to a man’s cornfields.’
He would have enlarged, except that the coroner, who certainly did have a firm grip on his task, stopped him. We were not there, he said, to discuss the depredations of deer.
When it was all over, Christopher came to speak to me and left with us. We stepped out of the Guildhall into the warm sunlight that had now succeeded the unseasonable spell of wet and chilly weather and we were just crossing the cobbled thoroughfare to the Tun Inn, where we had left our coach and Christopher had stabled his horse, when from behind us a voice called ‘Mistress Stannard!’ We stopped and turned to see the man with white hair hastening after us.
‘It is Mistress Stannard, is it not?’ he said breathlessly, catching up. I noticed that he had a couple of menservants hastening after him. Yes, he was a man of substance. ‘Mistress Stannard of Hawkswood? I guessed at who you were since you were seated with Master Brockley, the poor victim’s father, and when I asked Master Spelton there, whom I know slightly, he said that yes, I had guessed aright. Did you not, Master Spelton?’
‘So I did,’ said Christopher.
‘I have never chanced to see you at court, Mistress Stannard, though I attend there sometimes … I am Master Giles Frost. I have just returned from London. Since the beginning of August I have been at court with my brother. We are merchants, bringing in luxury goods from abroad, and we are granted opportunities to display them to the queen’s officers – even to the queen, on occasion. Sir Francis Walsingham may have mentioned me to you, he said he would do so.’
‘Oh … yes,’ I said, thinking what a splendidly suitable surname Frost was for a man with all that white hair. ‘He did.’
‘I have been meaning to visit you. But this is such a good opportunity. Perhaps, if we could all go to a tavern …’
‘We are going to the Tun inn anyway,’ I said. ‘We have left a coach and some horses there. We can take some refreshment together if you wish.’
The inn was a busy place, with sawdust strewn over a cobbled floor that made the scattering of tables and benches wobble. We gave orders for ale and presented Sybil and Dale to Master Frost. Frost observed that Christopher evidently knew me well, and Christopher explained that his wife had once been my ward. ‘Kate is sorry she couldn’t come today, but our little daughter Christina is not well and she can’t leave her. Poor little thing! Christina is only two months old.’
‘How is your stepdaughter?’ I asked.
Susanna Lake, Kate’s daughter by her first husband, had had her first birthday the previous January. She was a beautiful child, with the golden hair and bright-blue eyes that her father had inherited from Norwegian ancestors. Christopher, who had become quite as fond of her as he was of his own daughter, beamed and said: ‘She is enchanting, and promises to be such a beauty that I hope to get her well married without having to spend a fortune on her dowry. Her looks will probably be a dowry on their own.’
Everyone laughed and Master Frost said that Susanna sounded delightful. It was a joy to have daughters, he said. He asked Dale and then Sybil if they had any. Dale shook her head and Sybil told him about her girl, Ambrosia, who was living in Edinburgh with her second husband. He then turned to me and remarked that he had heard I had a daughter, too. Also grown up and married, was she not? I smiled and said yes. I could guess why he wished to talk to me. Although Walsingham had said that he didn’t approve of me, he was being affable enough now.
He turned back to Sybil. ‘So you are Mistress Jester, and companion to Mistress Stannard. I believe you are skilled not only in embroidery, but in the design of new patterns. So Sir Francis Walsingham told me.’
‘I have a modest skill,’ Sybil said quietly.
‘And Mistress Stannard is gifted at the art of embroidery and can even work with gold and silver thread – which is an art in its own right, so I have heard,’ said Frost.
‘I understand the method,’ I agreed. ‘It is more difficult than ordinary embroidery. For one thing, the threads are more fragile. And more expensive! They consist of silken threads wrapped in thin gold or silver, and the finished work won’t stand up to much washing or brushing. It has to be treated with great care.’
I spoke mildly, as one who is interested in the subject under discussion, but without too much emphasis. Walsingham wanted me to enter the Frost household, but I hadn’t as yet actually been asked. Frost was a fish on my line and I needed to play him with caution. He might still break away.
‘Sir Francis,’ said Frost, ‘chancing to hear that my two daughters, Joyce and Jane, are anxious to learn embroidering skills, and perhaps learn gold and silver work as well, suggested that I ask if you would give them some instruction. Their previous governess contracted a chill not long ago and died quite suddenly. She was not all that skilled with the art in any case, and not always very patient, either. Because a girl is slow to grasp a particular stitch is no reason for hitting her knuckles with a ruler. Sir Francis did not think I would encounter such problems in you, Mistress Stannard.’
He looked at me steadily for a moment and then said: ‘I have heard of your reputation as … shall we say an agent for the queen. I commend your courage, although I cannot approve of the idea of a woman being engaged in such tasks. In my view, it is not fitting. But that’s no reason for rejecting your skills with a needle, for that is of all things most appropriate for a lady.’ He was now favouring me with a charming smile. ‘I welcomed Sir Francis’s advice,’ Frost continued. ‘He suggested that it might be best if I invited you to make a stay in my house. He also remarked that you had heavy responsibilities both at court and at home, but thought you might welcome a break from them. I believe you have a reliable steward?’
‘Two,’ I said. ‘I have a second house, in Sussex. In fact, from time to time I move most of my household there for a while so that Hawkswood can be thoroughly cleaned and its cesspool drained. I leave a small staff behind to attend to the cleaning and hire engineers to drain the cesspool. I have formed the habit of doing that at the end of the summer, each year. And then I have the same work done at my Sussex property, Withysham. The small permanent staff I keep there stay put and help the engineers.’
‘Would a stay at my home, Knoll House, have an appeal for you instead? We can make you very comfortable and my girls would be pleased to welcome you. You will find them willing pupils.’
I hoped so. I had once before, during an assignment in the distant past, acted as embroidery teacher to someone’s daughters and had lurid memories of one clumsy-fingered girl whose work regularly ended up stained with blood from her pricked fingers. She was in fact a lovable girl in other ways, but I would no more have tried to instruct her in gold and silver embroidery than I would have tried to instruct a baboon.
‘I am not averse to the idea,’ I said carefully. ‘Sir Francis has mentioned it to me.’ The landlord of the Tun Inn, now released from his duties as a juror, had returned to the inn while we were talking and now came bustling towards us with a tray of tankards. They were distributed to us and Frost, waving down any offers to pay for them, produced his purse and saw to it himself.
‘I don’t ask you to come instantly,’ he said. ‘I am going back to London for two weeks to go on helping my brother with marketing the merchandise I have lately brought back from the Mediterranean countries. I was lucky. A very fine consignment of silks was being auctioned in Florence. We sold some of it at court and hope to find buyers for the rest in London.’
He smiled broadly, displaying teeth as white as his hair. ‘The Italian city states have become skilled producers of silk. Such goods no longer have to travel by camel train from Cathay, under heavy guard and the trains still lucky if they arrive unmolested. Times have changed. I was able to bring back a fine variety. There are plain silks, dyed and undyed, embroidered silks, brocaded fabrics, silk velvets in various weights. My brother is pleased. But I have now managed to move my household from the Midlands to Knoll House, here in Surrey. I mean to return there by the seventh of September. If I were to send word to you then, Mistress Stannard …?’
‘You will want Mistress Jester too?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, most certainly.’
I inclined my head, a lady considering a pleasant invitation. Not – oh, of course not! – one of Walsingham’s stealthy army of agents, sliding a foot through the door of a suspect’s house in order to feed him with lies for transmission to the king of Spain, to discourage that gentleman from any plans he might have about making war on England. To discourage him from any romantic notions of being Mary of Scotland’s chivalrous champion. To protect my homeland from the Inquisition.
And, of course, Frost must never know it. To him I must be the obliging Mistress Stannard of Hawkswood, happy to impart the ladylike skill of embroidery to two harmless young girls.
‘I would like to consider your invitation and see how I can organize my household in accordance with it,’ I said. ‘If you will give me your direction in London, I can then send word to you, perhaps in a few days’ time, to say whether I will be coming or not.’
I let myself give him a smile in return for his. ‘I must say,’ I told him, ‘I feel that very likely the answer will be yes.’