Page 32 of A Murder on London Bridge
Later that morning, I found Her Majesty in her private closet, a shaft of pale light falling across her as she bent over her prayers.
I sank into a curtsy. “Your Majesty, forgive my boldness, but I beg a word in private.”
She dismissed her attendants, leaving behind only the soft scrape of a chair as the last woman withdrew. Once we were alone, Catherine gazed at me, her dark eyes steady. “Speak, Lady Halloran.”
I hesitated but a moment before forcing out the words. “I fear for your safety. Lady Margaret’s death was no accident.”
Her brows drew together, but she did not interrupt.
“I beg you, ma’am. You must only take food and drink from those who came with you from Portugal, those you trust without question. And see that every dish and cup is watched from kitchen to table. There are whispers enough in Whitehall to chill the stoutest heart. I would not see them made truth.”
For a long moment she was silent, her gaze searching mine. At last, she inclined her head. You are young … but you know danger. Thank you. Your counsel—I will take.”
Relief washed through me, tempered by fear of what was yet to come. “God preserve Your Majesty,” I whispered.
Her faint smile held both sorrow and grace. “He must, if men will not.”
She dismissed me and returned to her prayers, her lips moving in silence as candlelight flickered across her bowed head.
As I made my way from her cloister, the Queen’s safety weighed on me. But heavier still lay the question that would not release its hold. Who had silenced Lady Margaret, and why? One place was bound to yield at least some of the truth—Lady Margaret’s chambers.
CHAPTER 17
THE SILENT CHAMBER
Once I left the Queen’s chambers, Anne hurried to keep pace beside me, her skirts brushing the stone floor. “My lady, you cannot mean to?—”
“I must,” I cut her off in a low voice. “I must learn who silenced Lady Margaret.”
She came to a sudden stop. “You believe she met foul play?”
“I do,” I said, turning toward her. “Now tell me, where are her chambers?”
Anne hesitated but a moment. “At the far end of the west passage, overlooking the privy gardens. But, my lady, they will ask why you seek it.”
I slipped a comb from my hair and showed it to her. “Let them ask. We will tell them that Lady Margaret borrowed this, and we’ve come to fetch it back. Doubt they’ll question either you or me after that explanation.”
She glanced down at the comb, weighing the lie. “And if they do?”
“We will smile and say it is my favorite, and I will not be parted from it.” I offered the smallest of smiles. “Which is true enough.”
Anne’s gaze swept the corridor, measuring shadows and doorways with the instinct of one accustomed to moving unseen. “Very well. But you must not linger inside. If anyone should come?—”
“I’ll be quick,” I promised. My pulse hammered, half with fear, half with anticipation. This was the step from which I could not turn back.
Anne gave the smallest of nods and moved ahead, her figure slight but purposeful as she made for the west passage. I let a handful of heartbeats pass, then followed at a distance, keeping to the fringe of light where the torches sputtered and the smoke gathered near the beams. The palace had a different sound now after Lady Margaret’s tragic death—voices pitched low, steps cautious upon the rushes, the swift hush that fell when one drew near. In corners and along the walls, people formed uneasy clusters, breath and rumor mingling.Accidentandfalldrifted like gnats.Murdermoved like a colder wind.
The west passage opened wide enough for four to walk abreast, its windows looking out upon the privy gardens where the yews stood clipped and still as watchmen. The air held a faint sweetness. A gardener had bruised mint somewhere below, and it rose cleanly through the stone’s chill.
At the end of the passage, a door stood half a hand’s width ajar, a strip of dimness in the light. Anne hovered there, head bent, listening. I held back as she slipped closer and murmured something low. A woman’s voice answered, and in another moment, a woman emerged, arms full of linen.
Anne lingered only a heartbeat longer, then eased the door wider and flicked me an all-clear sign.
As I reached her, I asked under my breath, “Who was that?”
“The laundress,” she murmured. “I told her my errand for your comb and asked if she had seen the chamber keeper. She had not. The room has not yet been set to rights.”
“Good.” It was the rare instance in which neglect served justice.
