Authors: Christi Phillips
Tags: #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Fiction
The Devlin Diary (43 page)
“There was someone else on the Backs that night,” Claire replied. “Someone else who was also at the party.” Someone who either loved Derek Goodman or hated him or both, though Claire doubted that he had ever noticed. Someone whose delicate sensibilities had been deeply disturbed by being ignored on the one hand and cruelly teased on the other. “Someone who put Xanax in his drink, followed him home, witnessed his argument with Dr. Bennett, saw him fall down—and then held his head in the water until he died.”
“Who?” Hoddy asked.
“Rosamond Mercy.”
“I believe she’s outside in the hall right now,” Andrew said.
They found Rosamond Mercy sitting by herself at one of the student’s tables, forlornly pushing bits of food around her plate. When she saw Andrew and Claire approaching with Portia Hastings in tow, she carefully set her fork down on the table and looked up at them, her eyes appearing unnaturally large behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She was very calm, as if she had been expecting this for some time now.
“Sorry,” she said.
A few hours later, when the reception was long over and the police had taken Rosamond Mercy and Elizabeth Bennet to the station, Claire walked with Andrew through Nevile’s Court on their way to the Wren Library. To her surprise, he opened the door to the basement stairway and waved her through.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Back to the archive.”
“Oh, no. It’s cold, and there are spiders.”
“And a new lock and key, so there’s nothing to worry about.” Andrew unlocked the archive door and ushered Claire inside. “This morning, before the service, I did some detective work of my own. It turns out that the Barclay collection, like a number of the Wren’s collections, contains items other than books.”
Andrew led Claire along the archive’s periphery to one of the antique cabinets. He opened the doors with a flourish. Inside, resting at the front of a stack of paintings, was a portrait of a lovely, dark-haired woman dressed in a Restoration-era gown of gold and red silk. “Behold Lady Barclay.”
Claire remembered the letter she’d come across in the folio in R bay when she’d first begun researching women artists. It seemed ages ago now. “The same Lady Barclay who was painted by Mary Beale?”
“The one and the same.”
“This is all very interesting, but I don’t understand its significance.”
Andrew smiled. “Before she became Lady Barclay, she was known as Mrs. Hannah Strathern.”
Claire’s eyes widened with delight. “It’s Hannah?”
“Yes, it’s her.”
Claire knelt down to look closely at the woman in the painting. She was beautiful, with a mass of dark curls that spilled over her shoulders, large, golden-brown eyes, a wise but gentle expression. Of course Edward had fallen in love with her.
“But she never mentioned that Edward was an earl.”
“He wasn’t when she met him. The title passed from his father to his older brother, Hugh. Sadly, Hugh died rather young, in 1677, and the title went to Edward.”
“So they did marry.”
“And had children. The collection was left to the school by their great-great-grandson, the ninth Earl of Barclay. There are probably a number of other things in the collection worth looking at.”
“And the books upstairs—they must be from Hannah’s own library.”
“And her father’s and Edward’s. You’ve uncovered a few of the most interesting stories to come out of the Wren in a very long time.”
Claire stood and shrugged. “Beginner’s luck.”
“I would attribute it to something more than that.” He paused and took on a more serious tone. “It seems to me that you’re going to have to write about this. And I don’t think you could do justice to it in a paper. You’ll probably have to write a book. Of course, that would mean staying here longer than three terms. Might take a couple of years or more. You’ll probably have to become a fellow.”
Claire mulled this over, enjoying the sense of perfect contentment that it produced. Stay in Cambridge and become a fellow? She couldn’t think of anything better. Especially when it meant she’d have ample opportunity to find answers to all the questions that still remained concerning the fates of Hannah and Edward, Maitland, and Thomas Clifford, et al. Not to mention the splash that the discovery of the secret article to the Treaty of Dover would make.
“Thank you,” Claire said. Andrew was looking at her with big brown eyes that had gone all soft and dreamy, as though she was the most delectable woman in the world. “There’s only one problem,” she added.
“And that is?”
“Fellows aren’t allowed to kiss each other.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Andrew said with obvious regret. He bowed his head and shook it slowly, then looked back at her with a smile. “But sometimes, they break the rules,” he added, lowering his lips to hers.
21 April 1673
To the Rue de Varenne:
My dear sister:
No doubt you have heard stories of my Capture, even my Death, stories that I hope were so illogical and Absurd that you knew them at once to be False. It’s true I have been Taken, and am not Free, but I am not in Newgate or even the Tower where I properly belong; but more of this later.
You should know that Montagu has completely deserted me, his former Man-of-all-trades. He has shown his true Coward’s colors—he has tried to put as much Distance between us as he can, and does nothing to ease my Imprisonment, even though he is now a rich Man and has the Means. I hear he has finally achieved his Ambition, and married the first Heiress he could lay his hands on, and has gone back to Paris with his English bride—there to reside in a most Unhappy and acrimonious Matrimony. It may seem Strange to you once you learn where I am Lodged, that we hear the best Gossip here; it is almost like being at Court. But I will not keep you in Suspense much longer. On with my story.
I nearly succeeded in Revenging our beloved Princess, to whom we owe so much: I, for her love and tenderness; you, for your
advantageous marriage, for if she had not introduced you to the Duc d’Alencon you might still be living with our parsimonious uncle in that dingy town house he calls home instead of your palatial villa on the rue de Varenne. Alas, I was tripped up by a pair that I never meant to Harm, though their Interference had made it necessary. But it is not for them that my Hate is harbored. Indeed, it is due to Mrs. Devlin’s—or, I should say, Mrs. Strathern’s, as she has gently corrected me on her visits—Generosity that I may write to you, for she has provided the ink, paper, quill and candle, along with some hot Victuals that I may not Perish too soon.
You may have heard that I fought to the Death; Dr. Strathern stabbed my leg, and Mrs. Strathern pushed me into the Fleet. At first they thought I was Lost, doomed to Drown, or so Mrs. Strathern has told me. But after my submersion in the raging river I grabbed onto a bit of flotsam. My makeshift Raft took me safely downstream through the horrible Muck of that channel—indeed, the Wound on my leg was made no better by coming into contact with the foulness of the Fleet Ditch—but otherwise I was unhurt, and was determined to depart via the East shore and make my way to the docks at Deptford, where for a few guineas I could hire a seagoing berth to France.
But the King’s Guards were waiting for me. As soon as I crawled up on the muddy bank near Fleet Street, they set upon me. They had already been given their Directive—either by Arlington or by the King himself—and brought me straight here to Bethlehem Hospital, or Bedlam, as it is known, and locked me up with the Lunatics and Madmen.
The whole dreary place reeks with the fetid Odors of urine and dung and the pervasive sour scent of Sickness. Everyone is half-Starved; the thin Gruel they feed us wouldn’t keep a kitten alive. People of Quality like to visit of an afternoon and stare at us as though we were Animals in cages instead of human Beings trapped behind the bars of our Cells and within whatever Madness ails us. The men have a good Laugh and the women a pleasant sense of Trepidation, one that puts into their heads all sorts of dark Terrors and dread Imaginings, and this makes them cling to their Escorts
in a way that must be most satisfactory. The man in the cell next to mine has what I am told is Catatonia, and does not speak or move himself; though the Guards will charge a few Shillings for arranging his Limbs in bizarre Poses, in which he remains until they move him again. The woman in the cell opposite moans day and night in the most piteous Fashion and bangs her head against the wall. A visiting physician has told me that she has no disease per se, only a deep and abiding melancholy that no Physick can cure. The man two cells away from me has the Falling Sickness, for which they keep him strapped to his bed so that he will not hurt himself; and in another cell is a man who has chewed away at his own Arm, so much so that in some areas between the wrist and elbow the Bone is exposed; but he suffers so much from his Insanity that he cannot be stopped.
And then there is me. They say I am also Mad, for I rant unto the King; not just the English King but also the French King. It is no Accident that I have been shut away here. Charles Stuart fears not my Life so much as he fears my Death and what I would say in my last dying Speech at Tyburn. Though I have much to tell my Visitors, they treat my Exposé as little more than a comic turn they might see in a Theatre. Even after I am set free, if there be such a time, the taint of Madness will be upon me; and whatever I say will be met with Laughter and Scorn. I will always be considered a Madman; even though my story is (God is my witness) the Truth.
For I have had time to think, dear Sister. What I suspect of Princess Henriette-Anne and her sad Fate could tear apart Countries and topple Kings. The fetes, dances and theatrical spectacles enjoyed by King Charles and Princess Henriette-Anne and their courtiers in Dover that golden summer were all a charade, I see that now, a means to conceal the true reason for the long-anticipated reunion of brother and sister: the making of an agreement that promised French gold to Charles Stuart. An agreement that was known only to those closest to both Kings. How do I know this? In part, from the loose lips of our erstwhile friend Montagu, who boasted to me that he was taking over the job of ferrying gold from Paris to London, a task first bestowed on Roger Osborne by the Princess, who sealed her
Request with her gold ring so that Louis would know that Osborne came to him by her command.
I have that ring now. I stole it from Osborne’s
corpus vile,
that these conspirators may not think they will go unpunished for their role in Henriette-Anne’s disgrace. For it is these very men who allowed her to Die, then concealed the truth of her death; concealed it for the sake of this secret agreement. Not even King Charles will accuse the Duc d’Orleans of murder; clearly his need for French gold outweighs his obligation to his sister.
I ask you, could I have done anything other than what I have done? No one but I, not even her own brother the King, sought justice for her death. I know you of all people will understand my rage. But my Task is not yet completed, sister; there are those who are still breathing who have not yet paid the price: Arlington, Severin, Clifford, the King himself. I throw myself on your Mercy and beg you to work for my release.
I will be free:
no matter how, no matter when. It should not be impossible;
lucri bonus est odor ex re qualibet:
the smell of money is good wherever it comes from. Please do not desert me.
I remain, &c.
“Mr. Maitland.” Hannah stands in the corridor outside his barred cell. “The warden requests that you return the ink and the quill to me.”
Maitland looks up from his makeshift desk, a small plank of wood set over the top of a close-stool. “Without your assistance, I would not be able to post letters, so what is the use?” He folds his letter, seals it with wax from the dripping candle, and wraps the wet quill in a spare sheet of paper. With effort, he rises to his feet. A wide iron cuff rings his right ankle, and the chain that secures him to the far wall scrapes on the floor as he limps to the front of his cell. His matted hair has grown well past his shoulders; his green eyes stare feverishly from his haggard face. Four months in Bedlam have left Maitland gaunt as a skeleton, with filthy clothes that are quickly becoming rags. He hands the letter, ink, and quill through the bars.
“Your leg has healed, and my work here is finished,” Hannah says,
slipping the letter into her coat pocket. “I will not be returning for some time.”
“You are going away?”
“No, not away.” She feels herself blush slightly.
Maitland cast an eye over her figure. “You are with child,” he says. “I should have noticed earlier.” He steps back a bit and narrows his eyes. “It suits you, Mrs. Strathern. As do the spectacles.”
“Thank you.” Hannah is gracious, but she never forgets what Maitland is capable of; she has seen the brutal results with her own eyes. She bends down to open her medicine case and places the writing accoutrements inside, then straightens and buttons her coat.
“You are not leaving so soon?” Maitland says.
“I’m afraid I must. Our friend Mr. Ravenscroft is back in the king’s good graces and is being released from the Tower today. We go to meet him.”
Maitland clutches the bars of his cell and brings his face closer, so close that she can smell the lingering aroma of the chicken fricassee he has just devoured. “Was it you who returned him to favor?” he asks sharply. When Hannah doesn’t reply, he smiles shrewdly; a smile that sends a cold shiver through her. “Of course it was you. Why can you not use your influence with the king to release me?”
“You have committed murder, Mr. Maitland. You have brought pain and death and suffering to many people. By law, you should have been hanged. Why the king chooses to keep you here I know not, but my clemency does not go so far as to interfere with his justice.”
Since January, Hannah has three times been honored with a private sitting with the king. He feels some indebtedness for her successful treatment of Louise de Keroualle and, in return, has protected her against the College of Physicians. He has also allowed her to practice at Bridewell Hospital, where the poor go for physick. She has thought many times on the strange and horrible events of the past months, of the charges that Maitland made as he threatened her life. Almost everyone who knew the king’s secret—if Maitland’s suspicions are true—is now dead, and they have taken the secret of Henriette-Anne’s death to their graves. Is the king outraged over these crimes, or have
Maitland’s murderous acts suited the king’s own ends? Hannah studied the king’s eyes as he spoke to her, and she saw how sharply they glittered behind his devil-may-care façade. The yapping dogs, the foppishness, the insistence on constant merriment and diversion: it was a beautifully crafted performance, she suspected. Although she could never be certain of the truth, she would never again think the king a fool.
“
His
justice,” Maitland spits angrily. “The king knows nothing of justice. I am God’s instrument, and I will not let his work go unfinished, Mrs. Strathern.” Maitland reaches through the bars and seizes her wrist with his bony fingers. He remains surprisingly strong, with a grip tight enough to hurt as he pulls her closer. “I will be free, I tell you, with your help or without.”
His eyes lock on Hannah’s. In them she sees his rage, his resolve, his madness. Hannah wrenches her arm away and steps back, shaken. She should have known better than to stand so close to his cell without a guard present. “You will never be free, Mr. Maitland. I will post your letter, as your sister deserves to know where you are, but more than that I cannot do.” She shakes her head. “No matter where you are, you will never be free of what you have done.” She picks up her medicine case. “God have mercy on your soul.”
She turns away and walks past the shadowed cells with their sad occupants, many of whom she has treated in the past months. So much pain. Not every sickness can be cured, but she is able to ease the suffering of some. And her own suffering? Her hand instinctively cradles her rounded belly. Her past can never be forgotten but she has discovered, to her solemn delight, that its sorrows can be diminished.
She walks past the warden’s office, through the vestibule, and then outside, where Edward waits for her in the warm spring sunlight and the sweet, rain-freshened air.