‘A few times. The Queen has sometimes taken out her jewels, or a half-finished letter in front of me; she always kept the key round her neck.’ Her voice grew sad. ‘But not these last few months. Recently her majesty has seemed reluctant to let me see inside it.’
I had to deflect her from this path, even if it meant lying. ‘Sometimes when a person has been under strain for a while, as I know the Queen has, some final event, such as the loss of a ring from a loved one, can unbalance their humours.’
She nodded. ‘True.’ But she looked at me keenly.
‘You are quite sure, then, there was nothing unusual that night.’
She thought hard, then something seemed to occur to her. ‘Apart from the smell, which soon vanished, there was only one thing, something so small I hesitate to mention it.’
‘What?’ I leaned forward over Lord Parr’s desk. ‘Anything might help.’
‘I told you I came over from my lodgings. You will have discovered how many guarded doors one must pass through in this place – at the entrance to the King’s Guard Chamber, the Presence Chambers, the Privy Chamber, the privy lodgings . . . When I am on duty I am always on the list of people to be admitted. Sometimes a guard new to his duties will ask who I am, check that I am on the list and make a prick against my name with his pin. I do not complain, it is their duty. But in the Queen’s apartments nearly all the guards know me; they just mark my name as I pass. That night the guard on the door to the privy lodgings was a man who has often been on duty there, named Zachary Gawger. To my surprise he stopped me and made a fuss about being unable to find my name on his list. I told him not to be foolish, but he insisted on checking the list twice before he finally found it and let me through. And he spoke in a loud, bullying tone, not fit for addressing a lady of my station.’ She bridled slightly. ‘I wondered if he might be drunk, but the guard captain always checks the guards are sober, and their equipment in order, before he allows them on duty.’
‘It certainly sounds strange,’ I agreed. ‘I shall discuss it with Lord Parr.’ I stood and bowed. ‘I thank you for your time.’
Mistress Odell got up. ‘I am asked to take you to the Queen’s private prayer closet now. The Queen will meet you there. I understand you are to speak to Jane Fool.’
‘’Tis so.’
That touch of a humorous smile again, like Queen Catherine’s. ‘I wish you good luck with her, sir.’
She opened the door, and I followed her out.
WE WALKED DOWN the hallway. A rich perfume of roses and lavender filled the air, the scent coming from petals laid alongside the wainscotting. Through an open door at the end of the hall I had a glimpse of an immensely long, brightly painted gallery with tall windows, and of caged songbirds within that made a pretty trilling. The Queen’s Gallery, I surmised.
Mary Odell knocked on a side door and, receiving no reply, bade me enter. I found myself in a private closet, a room for prayer. The design was impeccably orthodox; richly painted like everywhere in the palace, with an altar covered with embroidered white linen and candles burning in niches. The Queen would make sure her private chapel presented no visible sign of reformism for her enemies to use against her.
Mary Odell turned in the doorway. ‘The Queen and Jane should be here soon.’
‘Thank you, Mistress Odell.’
She gave me a sudden winning smile. ‘I know you will do all you can to help the Queen. God speed your efforts, Serjeant Shardlake.’
‘You are kind.’
She went out with a rustle of silken skirts, leaving me alone. In the distance I could hear faint voices: the daily hubbub of the palace. At last, I thought, I gain a little ground. The man with half an ear who had been at the first attack on Greening was linked to someone at the top; Mary Odell’s strange episode with the guard should be investigated, too. Even that odd smell should be considered further. And now I was about to see the Queen again. I looked at one of the red candles burning in the chapel, and for a moment felt an odd sense of contentment.
So thick was the rush matting that I did not hear approaching footsteps, and started as the door opened. Four women entered, but Queen Catherine was not among them. Two were young, dressed sumptuously in long-sleeved dresses. The two others, I realized with a shock, were familiar to me from the great portrait of the King and his family. One was the little round-faced woman who had been standing behind the Lady Mary in the doorway; the other was the Lady Mary herself. The little woman, who I realized must be Jane Fool, had with her, of all creatures, a fat white duck, which waddled beside her, a leathern collar and leash round its neck.
Jane was conspicuous in the comparative plainness of her dress, though her grey high-collared gown and white coif were of the best material. Her blue eyes darted around the chapel then fixed on me with a blank, frightened look. Beside her, scarcely taller, but magnificently dressed and with a bearing of regal authority, the Lady Mary studied me. I bowed almost to the floor, my heart thumping hard.