The Dandelion Seed (28 page)

But Thomas was not listening. He was staring at a pamphlet which lay open on his desk. He had gone pale under his tan and looked a sickly yellow. Staring up at Thomas was the face of Annabelle standing on the gallows with a rope about her neck. It was a life sketch, the artist had coloured yellow the ruffs and frills of her dress and underneath the illustration was a foul and very detailed description of the way in which poor Annabelle had died.

Rolly had returned to his post looking out of the window. Suddenly he called out: ‘She’s here! Just caught sight of her, but it’s the
Destiny
all right.’

Thomas gathered his papers quickly. ‘We cannot wait for the
Destiny
,’ he said grimly. ‘Our own destiny is at stake. We must go quickly to London now. Go saddle up, and hurry.’

Within an hour they were galloping along the west country roads. They were miles away when Sir Walter Raleigh finally stepped ashore only to be arrested instantly by the King’s men. Thomas Mayhew was not there to try to save him, for he was away out on the moors riding as if the devil was behind him, scared for the wife and child he had left in the care of Annabelle whose distraught face had stared out at him from the news sheet.

By dawn they had entered the deserted city streets and arrived at the Temple to await the clerk outside his offices. Thomas and Rolly were dusty and saddlesore, and the sight of them was a shock for Mr Spenser when he came from his lodgings to work. He greeted them and he begged them to take breakfast with him but Thomas gruffly refused. He had to know at once what all this was about and he would not rest content until all the facts were laid before him. The clerk fussed and fidgeted with an eyeglass which he wore hanging round his neck and was trying hard to fit it into the front of his eye, while at the same time keeping a wary eye on Rolly, who in turn stared aggressively back at him because he sensed that this red-faced little man was upsetting his master.

‘Wait by the door, Rolly,’ Thomas ordered.

Rolly immediately took up a position by the door with his hand on his sword hilt as if he were expecting Mr Spenser to make a bolt for it.

Then with a rustle of papers, Mr Spenser began to explain. ‘This is a very sad business, sir,’ he said. ‘I suppose you have heard of the case of Mistress Annabelle?’

‘All right, get on with it,’ Thomas retorted abruptly.

‘Having thoroughly investigated the case I fear that the report I had from the village in Essex is true.’ Mr Spenser was sweating and seemed ill at ease.

Thomas’ voice rose in temper. ‘Well, what
is
it man?’ he bellowed.

‘That your wife lost her wits and did away with herself and the child,’ Mr Spenser said timorously.

Thomas drew in a deep breath of horror. ‘What proof have you of this?’ he demanded.

‘I was fortunate enough to trace a servant who was with her on the day she disappeared. Her name is Wanda – a nice homely girl.’

‘Well, where is she? I would also like to talk to her.’ Thomas got up impatiently, ready to go.

‘In her old home in Essex. The poor girl has just recently recovered from smallpox so I would not advise you to go there, sir. There has been quite an epidemic in that part of the country.’

But Thomas held out his hand for the written address. ‘You don’t seem to have made much progress so maybe I will do better,’ he muttered hoarsely, choked with emotion. He knew that once outside this office he would have to give way to the grief which had suddenly assailed him.

With Rolly at Thomas’ side, they rode east, stopping only to change mounts and to eat a quick meal, then on they went over the Weald to the little village where Thomas had first taken Marcelle.

The day was still young when they came to the forest. Leaves had already started to fall from the huge horse chestnut trees and hissed and crackled under foot. Still and silent, the forest shaped a tall, tree-lined avenue. Thomas was engrossed in thought as he rode but Rolly beside him had his eyes on their surroundings always on guard, for those days in the Spanish colonies had taught him to be forever alert.

Thomas was day-dreaming of Marcelle, of her nut-brown hair and rosy cheeks, remembering the feel of her young body pressed close to him when they first rode out to Essex from the inn at Hackney. Could she really have gone crazy and destroyed her own child? No, it was quite impossible, she was too like a child herself. Marcelle had been so timid on her wedding day – perhaps he should have stayed a while to unite themselves closer, but the thought of that child in her womb had sickened him. Poor little Marcelle, she never had a chance. She had been so young and her life, apparently, was finished. He had to try to put that thought from his mind; it did not bear thinking about.

At last they came in sight of Craig Alva. The black-and-white timbers seemed to stare desolately at them as they rode up the weed-covered drive. The once bright windows were dirty and drab and the lawn grass was waist-high. It did not take much to know that the house was empty. They searched the stables but found nothing there but a family of rats. And the farm cottages were deserted too. They rode on a mile or two down the road to the little village of Beauchamp Riding where Wanda lived, and pulled in at a small inn called the Red Lion. Leaving the horses with the groom, they went inside.

Inside it was cool and dark. The low ceiling with its blackened oak beams told its age. The wide polished bar was welcoming and Thomas would have liked to have stayed. But at the moment his mind was preoccupied and the hospitality of the inn would have to wait.

The landlord was fat and of florid countenance. Thomas knew he had met him before at his own wedding. At first the landlord did not recognise Thomas but when the younger man mentioned Craig Alva and Abe and Annabelle, the landlord’s face turned a sickly white. He lifted the little flap in the counter. ‘Come through,’ he whispered hoarsely, looking from side to side. ‘Who are you, sir?’ he asked furtively once they were inside.

‘I am Thomas Mayhew. I am seeking information regarding my wife. This you should know, since you were a guest at my wedding.’ Thomas spoke in a clear cold and precise tone looking angrily at the quivering landlord around whose neck rings of fat wobbled like jelly.

‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ he replied. ‘Terrible business, that was, and not over yet,’ he added nervously. ‘Denouncing people as witnesses every day they are, indeed, sir.’

‘What’s that to do with my wife?’ demanded Thomas.

‘Oh, you don’t know, sir? It was terrible – corrupted that little girl, they did. She killed herself and done away with her own baby.’

Thomas’ fist crashed down on the table. ‘Stop this nonsense!’ he yelled. ‘I came here for facts, not some damned yokel’s ravings.’

‘It’s true, sir, I swear it’s true! I went up to London to the trial. Made contact with the devil, he did, that crazy fellow who used to live there.’

Thomas had drawn his dagger and with its point at the landlord’s throat he held him against the wall. ‘Oh, shut your damned foul mouth!’ he snarled. ‘Tell me, where does the servant girl Wanda live?’

The landlord pointed with trembling hands to the shack down the road. ‘Down there, sir, that old wooden place on the corner.’

Thomas released him, put his dagger away and strode out with swift step down the dusty village street to where a slated dwelling leaned crazily to one side. In the doorway with her arms folded stood Wanda.

Life had not been very kind to Wanda over the last few years. For many nights she had waited at Craig Alva for Marcelle to return, quite heartbroken at the loss of her beloved mistress. Then one night the king’s men came and arrested her along with the farmer and his family, and they were all shut in the courthouse for a night. The next day, they were questioned about the activities of the family that had lived at Craig Alva, but then were released the next day. Although they were innocent, rumours of black magic and witchcraft gripped the village. With righteous indignation, the villagers waited outside the courthouse ready to aim stones and filth at Wanda and the farmer’s family. Then they put the farmer in the stocks. The following day, the whole lot of them were driven out of the village, these blameless people whose only fault had been to live in a cottage on the land belonging to Craig Alva, now reputed to have been a den of iniquity. A stone had hit Wanda in the eye and she had gone screaming to her mother, who hid her until the wrath of the villagers had died down.

Wanda had never been much of a beauty and now she had a vivid scar above her eye as a result of the injury. Then, to add to her trouble, came the smallpox epidemic. She lost her poor old mother but survived the epidemic herself. Now she was pock-marked as well.

After all this bad luck, Wanda’s mind had turned nasty and she was always at odds with her neighbours. Now she stood in the dark doorway as Thomas came up the path but as he approached she darted indoors with a scared look. As Thomas reached the rickety door, it was slammed in his face.

‘Come out, damn you!’ roared Thomas impatiently, beating on the door with his fist. But not a sound came from inside. Thomas motioned to Rolly, who knew what to do. Marching up, he put his huge shoulder to the door and pushed hard. There was a sharp sound of splintering wood as the door fell inwards.

The two men stepped into the darkened shack to find Wanda crouching down in a corner sobbing with terror. She was convinced that she was about to be arrested as a witch.

Thomas put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘We only want to find out some knowledge that you might have about my wife.’

Wanda’s big, disfigured face stared up at Thomas in wonder. ‘You are little Marci’s husband?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, thank God you have come!’ Her big hands held on to his arm. ‘Oh, God, how I have prayed for you to come home!’

Thomas pulled her into a chair. ‘Now,’ he said kindly, sitting down in front of her, ‘tell me all about it.’

As Wanda unfolded the story of Marcelle’s last days at Craig Alva before she disappeared at the height of a storm one afternoon, Thomas listened and his expression became darker and his brow creased. Occasionally his lips twitched as if he were in pain. She told of the decoy, the boy who had knocked at the door on the evening that Roger had been taken, and of finding her mistress’ crumpled little body, her head all twisted to one side, and the despair at the sight of the empty cot.

‘Do you honestly think that Marcelle was mad the day she left?’ Thomas asked Wanda.

Wanda shook her big head. Her thin, sandy hair stuck out from under a large cap and her strange blank eyes looked vaguely at him. Despite her look, honesty was there in her face and Thomas was sure that this homely girl would give him the untarnished truth of Marcelle’s disappearance.

‘My mistress was not mad,’ said Wanda indignantly. ‘She was lost and bewildered, so young and alone, and the terror of that night was always there to haunt her.’

Thomas looked relieved and patted Wanda’s shoulder. ‘So you think she went off by herself, or did someone abduct her, as they did the child?’

‘It was not possible, sir, for anyone to approach the house unnoticed in daylight,’ replied Wanda. ‘At the back is open country and I was down at the cowshed with Daisy who had just given birth to a calf. The boys were outside, so no stranger could come past the gate without being seen.’

‘So she went out the back way towards London, is that what you are saying?’ Thomas asked.

‘Yes, there was no other way she could go.’

‘Well where would she go?’ he enquired.

‘To find Roger,’ Wanda was most emphatic. ‘She went to the King’s palace to ask him to find Roger for her.’

Thomas rubbed his beard thoughtfully. Did Marcelle know the identity of her child’s father? Was it possible that the secret was out? Why else would she go to London? If she were still alive, he would find her and God help the fiends who had harmed her. He gripped the hilt of his sword and stared out of the broken doorway to where Rolly sat squatting in the sunshine, his eyes fixed forever on the road. With his loyal servant beside him, Thomas would search for Marcelle to the ends of the earth. He rose to his feet and smiled at the distressed girl who sat slumped over the table. Pulling a leather pouch from his doublet, he poured some gold coins out on to the rough wooden surface of the table. ‘Don’t you fret, my dear,’ he said kindly. ‘This money will repair your doorway and give you some extra comforts.’ He then wrote down an address. ‘You will find me here if you learn of anything new.’ Then with a warm gesture, he put his arm on her shoulders. ‘Many thanks for the care you have given my family. Don’t distress yourself, what happened was not of your doing.’ Then, with a final farewell, they returned to the inn to collect their mounts and were soon riding back towards London.

‘Where to now, sir?’ enquired Rolly.

Silent and brooding, Thomas turned and looked at his servant with a distant expression on his face. He really did not know the answer to that question. ‘We had better go and visit your sister, I suppose,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Rolly’s white teeth showed in a happy smile. ‘Yes, we will go home to Betsy. She will know where your wife is,’ he said.

Thomas smiled affectionately at him. ‘Come on, then,’ he dug his spurs into his horse’s flank. ‘Let’s get going.’

They set off at a fast gallop towards the inn at Hackney. As they rode over the rickety bridge which crossed the River Lea, the sun hung like an orange ball in the sky. The little brook, a silver strip, went babbling past the tall building of the Duke’s Head as the shadows of the evening played hide and seek around the ivy-clad walls.