The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) by Fiona Buckley Read Free Book Online Page B

reminded of Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert, and that ghastly, gloating description of a man dying in torment. It had left a mark on me. Before then, living as I did in the power of my uncle and aunt, I had feared them, but after that, I began to hate them, for they had filled my mind with images which polluted it and spoiled my joy in innocent things. Never, since then, had I been able to enjoy that characteristic scent of autumn, the woodsmoke of the November garden bonfire. I would breathe it in once—and then Uncle Herbert’s face, full of hateful pleasure, and Uncle Herbert’s loathsome voice, uttering loathsome words, would force their way into my mind. Even a warm and friendly hearth would disturb me if it smoked, and blew the smell out into the room. I thought of the weaver and his daughter and wished that Dr. Wilkins were not merely hard up, but starving in a ditch. I took a mouthful of quiche and had to struggle to swallow it.
    Cecil was continuing. “For a man who is far from well off,” he said, “Dr. Wilkins has been splashing money about in a most remarkable way. Ursula—this is not a change of subject—just look once more at our new wallhangings. Not at the tapestries this time, but at the carpet to your left.”
    I did so. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Is it Persian?”
    “It is indeed,” said Lady Mildred. “We bought that from Bernard Paige, just as we bought the tapestries. It came by way of Turkey and Venice, as all goods from Persia do. It was somewhat expensive, just over . . .”
    I was still trying to eat my quiche. The sum she named made me choke again.
    “Oh yes,” said Cecil. “It’s silk, made from thousandson thousands of tiny knots. It would never come cheap, although if we could arrange some direct commerce with the source, which doesn’t involve the Venetians and the Turks taking a cut, the prices of such goods might come down a little. The council is discussing the possibility, as a matter of fact. We fell in love with that carpet, I fear. We were in an extravagant mood. So, apparently, was Ignatius Wilkins, who was in the same warehouse at the same time. He, too, bought a Persian carpet, but believe me, Dr. Ignatius Wilkins just can’t afford that sort of thing.”
    “Has he been asked where the money came from?” I enquired.
    “Yes. I did that myself—a casual question there and then in the warehouse. You must be doing well, to afford a purchase like that, my friend. He said he’d been lucky at cards.”
    I recalled the cost of Cecil’s own carpet and said, “If he was that lucky, he’s been cheating.”
    “Or lying,” said Cecil. “And being paid, extremely well, for services unknown. That’s one example. There are others. A few words overheard at a dinner party for instance: a cryptic comment to the effect that Mary Stuart might be nearer to the English throne than most people realised.”
    Elizabeth had called herself slender and brittle. I thought of her, of her pale shield of a face, her glittering dress and slim, jewelled fingers, her intelligence. And her fears. She had said she was a bulwark to England, but she was just one person, she had told me, just one life. Her life, her good name, stood between the realm and . . .
    The smell of smoke. I shuddered.
    “You don’t think Jackdaw died by accident, do you?” I said.
    “No,” said Cecil. “It was a wonder that he was found, you know. The current in the Thames runs at a deep level. When people fall into the river by accident, they are often swept downstream underwater and straight out to sea. However, found he was, and there was an inquest. The verdict was accidental death, but . . .”
    “But?”
    “He was an experienced boatman; the evening was calm; and he had claimed to be on the track of a plot against the Queen. How does it sound to you? Incidentally, at the inquest, Dawson’s landlady—a very decent woman, sixty years of age—said that she had gone out that evening to call on a