Lord of Deception, стр. 12
Chapter Eleven
After the incident in the passageway, Mistress Barchard ignored Kit. Whenever she came into the gardens, she remained too far away from him to make greetings necessary. Illogically, this annoyed him. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile, not attracting attention, but he hadn’t planned on being deliberately snubbed. It was some days before he was able to put the events of the previous Sunday into perspective and finally admit to himself that he had damn near kissed Mistress Barchard, and she knew it. Well, thank the lord she had more sense than he, and knew not to encourage him any further.
Thrusting his personal feelings to the back of his mind, he continued gathering information about the people in the house and their movements. However, there was nothing to arouse his suspicions—except the reason Mistress Barchard had given for accosting him on Sunday. Him having an affair with Mistress Aspinall? Laughable!
But at the end of that week, there was nothing amusing about Kit’s situation. Bess of the kitchen told him Mistress Aspinall planned to leave for Sir Thomas Kirlham’s house on the Norfolk coast. As an undergardener, he couldn’t legitimately follow, so only a few days remained for him to unmask the traitor he’d been sent to find.
Desperate for evidence to present to Walsingham, he started hunting through the bedchambers while everyone was out at archery practice. Eager to exonerate Mistress Barchard from any guilt, he decided to begin with hers.
The first thing that struck him was how tiny the room was—little bigger than a dressing closet. It held a low truckle bed, a small window almost obscured by creepers, a linens chest, and a stool. The lady’s possessions seemed but few and far between, mostly confined to a few books, and a small oak box beside the bed, used for writing.
Recalling what he’d learned of codes and ciphers since becoming one of Walsingham’s spies, he examined the books thoroughly. None gave him any cause to doubt Mistress Barchard—they were mostly unadulterated classical texts. One was of particular interest, however, as it matched the book Bessie had described, which had aroused his suspicions.
He rolled his eyes, chuckling at his folly. The book was a Greek text of Homer’s Odyssey, with annotations in English. Nothing nefarious about that. Summoning up his schoolboy Greek, he established that Bessie’s “strange letters” were no more than Mistress Barchard’s attempts to teach herself a classical language. It certainly supported Bessie’s assertion that Mistress Barchard was clever.
Turning his attention to the writing box next, he carefully removed the ink pot, quills and paper from the top, all the time listening intently for the sound of returning voices.
The box contained a few pages of verse Mistress Barchard had penned herself—despite the blots and crossings out, he had to admit the content was worthy. He also found an English translation of the Bible inscribed with the names of her parents, and a matching prayer book bound in red leather. He seized on these excitedly—they could be evidence enough to prove her innocent of recusancy. What closet Catholic or supporter of the Spanish would treasure such books?
When he opened the Bible to make sure there was nothing concealed within, a thin slip of muslin slid out, containing a pressed pink rose. Taking the stem between finger and thumb, he twirled the flower around—was it one of those he had given her?
He gritted his teeth—he’d behaved so foolishly. His reaction to her nearness had been no more than the result of enforced chastity, and he should be able to control that. Yet he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman, holed up in this tiny room with only the memories of her dead family, and a crushed rose from a worthless servant to occupy her thoughts.
He returned the flower to its wrapping, and replaced all the objects in the box, returning the writing materials to its top. It was a relief to know he’d not experienced those stirrings of lust for a traitor. But now he must make haste, lest the real deceiver escape before he had time to smoke them out.
Leaving the attic by a rickety stairway, he entered the passageway where Mistress Aspinall’s chamber was. Despite knowing she was outside, he knocked softly on the door before letting himself inside.
This chamber was sumptuous compared to the one he’d just seen. Two of the walls were hung with Flemish tapestries, their colors bright in the summer sunlight. The window was large and uncluttered, with a deep sill whereon reposed a vase of Venetian glass, filled with fiery calendula blooms.
The end wall of the chamber was also the end wall of the house—it was clad in new oak paneling, shining with beeswax polish. The bed was large and four-posted. Kit grimaced to think Mistress Barchard had imagined he’d shared it with her cousin.
Gowns abounded, leaking out of chests and armoires, their gold and silver threads glinting in the light. Jewelry was heaped carelessly on a shelf in front of a high-quality mirror, and the whole room exuded opulence. He wondered at such wealth—few of the ladies at court had such finery as this. How could the woman afford it? Her husband had only been of the middling sort of gentry.
There were no Bibles or prayer books evident in this room—in fact, no books or pamphlets of any kind, despite Mistress Aspinall being a capable reader. But that, in and of itself, was no proof of her betrayal. Kit was about to give up his search when his eyes fell upon the paneling. It was newer than anything else in the room. What if it was a division of the room, not an end to it? Was there enough space behind there to conceal something?
Heart beating in his throat, Kit tapped softly at the squares of oak. Odd’s blood! The whole thing sounded hollow. His blood tingled with excitement