She was a passionate lover. But was she also a murderess? In the first of Paul Doherty's series featuring the time travelling scholar Nicholas Segalla, the reader is transported to the 16th century Scottish court. Perfect for fans of Susanna Gregory and C. J. Sansom. Edinburgh, 1567. Beautiful Mary, Queen of Scots, leaves her ill husband's bedside to attend the wedding festivities of her maid of honour. Hours later, the calm night is shattered by a devastating explosion. The King's body is found in a field with a cloak, a chair, a slipper and a dagger by his lifeless corpse. When stolen letters cast suspicion on the queen herself, she is accused of murder. Was the fiery Mary the perpetrator of the King's bloody murder, or the object of a ruthless plot of betrayal, crafted by England's most masterful assassin, the Raven Master? Only the shadowy scholar Nicholas Segalla can uncover the truth. What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'A cracker, full of twists and turns, with an overarching mystery of who exactly is Segalla' 'Paul Doherty's books are a joy to read ' ' The sounds and smells of the period seem to waft from the pages of [Paul Doherty's] books'
Release date:
June 11, 2013
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
175
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Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)
A MURDER IN MACEDON
A MURDER IN THEBES
Alexander the Great
THE HOUSE OF DEATH
THE GODLESS MAN
THE GATES OF HELL
Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)
THE WHYTE HARTE
THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES
Non-fiction
THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN
ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II
ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A GOD
THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF 1303
THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING
Ann was ill at ease as she took her seat in the elegant restaurant that stood in a side street off Merrion Square in Dublin: true, Dr. Nicholas Segalla acted the perfect host. He was, dressed in his dark blue woollen suit, the personification of courtesy and good taste. Ann noted that Segalla’s shirt and tie were of pure silk and his cufflinks and matching tie pin looked to be solid gold. Segalla’s hands were perfectly manicured, his sallow face closely shaved; not a hair on his head was out of place. Nevertheless, his stare unnerved her: his dark, seemingly soulless eyes studied her as she ordered her drink, even though he kept up a mundane, empty chatter, the news of the day: the busy roads, the traffic congestion in Dublin, the decor of the hotel. Only once did Ann catch something out of place. They were discussing Oxford when she was sure Segalla murmured, ‘Yes, yes, Oxford has changed since I was there last.’ This was followed by a lopsided smile, as if he were savouring a secret joke. By the end of the first course, Ann had had enough. She put down her spoon and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘Dr. Segalla, why have you invited me here?’
‘I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture at Oxford on Darnley’s murder at Kirk o’Field.’
‘Are you a historian?’ Ann asked.
Segalla pushed his own plate away.
‘In a way, yes.’
‘You have been to Oxford before?’ Ann insisted.
‘Yes.’ Again the polite reply, though slower this time.
‘And when were you there last?’ she asked.
‘Really there?’
Ann raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, that’s what I asked.’
‘Oh, in the winter of 1561, when Edmund Campion gave the oration at the funeral of Amy Robsart, wife of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. She fell down the stairs at Cumnor Place and broke her neck.’ His words came out in a rush.
‘You – you are joking!’ she stammered.
‘Oh, no, I’m not.’ Segalla indicated the gold chancery ring on his left hand. ‘I worked in the chancery of Archbishop Beaton in Paris. That’s where I obtained this.’
Ann kept her face impassive, yet she felt a tremor of fear and excitement. The circle of diners around her seemed to recede; the chatter of the waiters in the far corner and the soft melodies of the harpist faded like the sound of a radio being turned down. Here she was, sitting at a table with this enigmatic, beautifully dressed stranger who wore a chancery ring on his left hand and claimed to have been alive 430 years ago. She watched his eyes for some glimmer of amusement.
Segalla, however, gazed calmly back. Ann blinked, folded her napkin carefully and laid it on the table.
‘Dr. Segalla, you are joking? You are teasing me?’
‘No, I am not.’
‘Then, sir’ – she pushed back her chair – ‘you must think I am witless.’
Segalla smiled. ‘Witless, Ann? It’s many years since someone used such a word.’
Ann pushed her chair farther back and made to rise again. ‘Dr. Segalla, I thank you, but I really must go.’
Segalla, the perfect gentleman, also got to his feet. ‘Miss Dukthas, please.’ He spread his hands. ‘I will not keep you long; then you can go. After all, I did send the car. I have ordered the meal. I mean you no harm and you are in no danger.’ He grasped Ann’s wrist. ‘Ann, please, just a little of your time.’
Ann nodded and sat down while Segalla tactfully shooed away the enquiring waiter.
‘I was in Oxford in 1561,’ Segalla repeated. ‘But more, importantly, and of more interest to you, I was at Kirk o’Field in Edinburgh on tenth February 1567.’
As Ann made to rise again, Segalla leaned across the table and grasped her fingers. His grip was firm but warm. Ann saw the pleading in his eyes.
‘You are in no danger,’ he said again.
She stared coolly back and wondered whether he was telling the truth. On arriving at the restaurant she had glimpsed his eighteenth-century walking stick, and she knew enough about antiques to recognise the hidden sword.
‘Dr. Segalla,’ she murmured. ‘I thank you for your hospitality.’ She took her hand away. ‘I do not believe you are mad, but if my fellow writers were here, or if I told them what you’d said, they’d either roar with laughter or send for a doctor.’
‘Being gon from the place where I had left my harte, it may be easily judged what my countenance was.’
Ann stared open-mouthed. Segalla had just quoted, in sixteenth-century English, from the Second of the Casket Letters, those documents which, allegedly, proved that Mary Queen of Scots was an adulterous murderess.
‘I am not,’ Segalla whispered, ‘what I appear. I cannot explain, but I will prove my claims.’
Segalla didn’t seem to relish Ann’s astonishment. He put his hand in his jacket pocket, brought out a small bag of coins and spilled them on the table. The coins looked almost new, polished and glittering in the candlelight. Segalla simply pushed them towards her: a shilling from the reign of Edward III, a French écu, a Spanish doubloon.
‘You could have bought those,’ Ann quietly commented.
‘Yes, yes. But I didn’t buy this!’
He put his hand inside his jacket and drew out a transparent plastic wallet. He moved his wine glass away and held it up.
Ann stared at the drawing of a mermaid sitting on an oar, a crown on her wavy locks. ‘Where did you get that?’ she exclaimed. ‘It looks original!’
‘Oh, paintings like this appeared all over Edinburgh in February 1567,’ Segalla answered. ‘You know what it is?’
Ann leaned over and pointed at the mermaid. ‘In the seventeenth century the word ‘mermaid’ was the slang term for prostitute. The hare was part of James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell’s, coat of arms. After the murder of Darnley in February 1567, such placards appeared all over Edinburgh alleging that Mary and Bothwell had killed Darnley because of the Queen’s infatuation with her rough border lord.’
She almost snatched the plastic wallet from Segalla’s hand.
‘There are a few of these left, mostly in record offices in Scotland or England, but this is an original,’ he said.
She stared at the savage caricature of Queen Mary. The mermaid’s features were quite clearly hers: a sensuous pose intended to whip up feelings of revulsion amongst the good burgesses of Edinburgh.
‘It is genuine,’ she repeated.
‘Oh yes,’ Segalla said. ‘Mary’s enemies in Scotland could have taught our modern spy agencies many a trick when it comes to the destruction of their enemies.’
Ann moved to give it back. Segalla shook his head.
‘No, keep it.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a present. Now, we have talked enough. Let us have dinner.’
‘No, no,’ Ann said, asserting herself. ‘What would happen, Dr. Segalla, if I reported this to a physician? Or raised it in a more public forum?’
‘Then I would deny everything you have said and disappear,’ Segalla said. ‘You would lose the opportunity of a lifetime as well as cast doubt on your own judgement and scholarship. I am confident you won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you are Ann Dukthas, writer and lecturer on historical mysteries. I know and respect your integrity.’
‘You were with Mary in Edinburgh, or so you claim?’ Ann asked, incredulity in her voice. ‘Where else? Where do you come from? If you have such power, what is its source?’
‘I cannot answer that, at least not yet; just trust me.’ He sipped from his wine glass. ‘Now.’ He leaned across the table. ‘You gave a splendid lecture at Oxford on the murder of Darnley, but it posed as many questions as it provided answers.’ He smiled. ‘Drink your wine, and please, give me a resume of what you said.’
Ann stared back. Should she go? she wondered. She had advertised for any historian in the United Kingdom and Eire who could throw light on the murder of Henry Darnley, husband of Mary Queen of Scots, at Kirk o’Field just outside Edinburgh early in the morning of Monday, 10 February 1567. Segalla was the only one to reply. He had not only rung her but booked this restaurant and ordered a car to collect her. She smiled to herself; the least she could do was be civil.
‘At first the problem looked quite simple,’ Ann began. ‘We have the historical event, both its cause and effects, but when we study the mystery . . .’ She shrugged. ‘To put it bluntly, no two historians can agree. Mary Queen of Scots,’ she continued, looking down at the table, ‘was born in 1542 and executed in 1587. Her father was James V of Scotland, her mother the French princess Mary of Guise. James was defeated at Solway Moss by Henry VIII’s generals and died shortly afterwards. Henry wanted to marry his son, Edward, to the infant Mary, but the Scots wouldn’t have this. During the regency of her mother, Mary was sent to France as the prospective bride of the Dauphin, Francis. She was raised at the French court under the guardianship of her mother’s powerful relations, the Guises. In 1558, Mary married the Dauphin, who, a year later, became Francis II of France.’
Ann tapped the table. ‘Consequently, by the time she was seventeen, Mary was Queen of France and Queen of Scotland, and in England, the Catholic faction regarded her as their rightful monarch, dismissing Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn, as illegitimate.’
Segalla filled her glass and gestured to the waiters to serve the main course. ‘Continue.’
‘In December 1560, Mary of Guise, Regent of Scotland, died. Six months later Francis II perished of a rotting ear. The following year, the nineteen-year-old, widowed Mary returned to Scotland. She faced a country torn apart by the Reformation and had to confront opposition led by the Lords of the Congregation.’ She paused. ‘But you should know them.’
Segalla grinned. ‘They were led by the Calvinist John Knox, a religious fanatic. He couldn’t stand Catholics and he couldn’t tolerate women.’
‘I have met a few Knoxes in my life,’ Ann said. ‘And the rest?’
‘Three main luminaries,’ Segalla said. ‘James Stuart, Earl of Moray, Mary’s illegitimate half brother, a real snake in the grass. George Douglas, Earl of Morton. You’ll find many Mortons in the files of Amnesty International. Cruel and vindictive, Morton liked hanging women, even as they carried their babes in their arms.’
‘And?’
‘Maitland of Lethington: cunning, the sort of man who wouldn’t recognise the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the nose.’
Ann felt herself relaxing as she did in debating any great historical mystery, especially this one. She always felt a kinship with this long-dead queen. Mary had returned from the luxury of the French court to face an array of men who made modern gangsters look like babies gurgling in their cradles.
‘But Mary held her own?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, she was brilliant,’ Segalla said warmly. ‘She danced rings round them until her one fatal mistake.’
‘Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley?’
‘Precisely. A grandson of Henry VIII, Darnley also had a claim to the English crown. He was tall, brilliantly good-looking, sophisticated, a drunkard, weak-willed and vicious to boot.’ Segalla studied Ann. ‘Do continue,’ he said.
‘Darnley was an empty vessel,’ Ann said. ‘To be sure, Mary did her best, but Darnley displayed a streak of vicious paranoia. Mary had become pregnant early in her marriage, and when she realised what kind of man her husband was, began to rely heavily on an Italian, David Rizzio, her secretary. In 1566, Henry Darnley sided with the great nobles, and Rizzio was hacked to death in Mary’s presence at Holyrood Palace. The rebels fled. Mary kept her nerve and her head. Eventually the Lords were pardoned, including Darnley, who had fallen ill of either smallpox or syphilis, I’m not too sure which.’
‘Possibly both,’ Segalla muttered.
‘Whatever. Mary attempted a reconciliation. She went to Glasgow and brought the sickly Darnley to recuperate at a house on the outskirts of Edinburgh called Kirk o’Field. They arrived there on first February, 1567. Mary stayed with Darnley, sometimes sleeping in a chamber beneath his: on Sunday, ninth February, she returned to a masque at Holyrood Palace, then retired to bed. There, at two in the morning of Monday, tenth February, a massive explosion, sounding like thirty cannon firing, woke the city. Kirk o’Field had been blown up, and in an orchard forty yards from the house, they found Darnley’s corpse and that of his squire, Taylor, with no marks or bruises.’ Ann sipped her wine. ‘From this mystery flowed a broad river of tragedy. Mary was blamed for the murder. She allied herself to a powerful nobleman, a born rogue, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, who was accused as her accomplice. Mary was hounded out of Edinburgh. The Lords of the Congregation, led by her half brother, Moray, rebelled. Mary fled to England, where she was kept a prisoner for nineteen years until her execution at Fotheringay Castle.’
‘You have seen this?’ Segalla handed her a photocopy of a drawing Ann recognised as being kept in the Public Record Office in Chancery Lane, London. She nodded and placed it on the table before her.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But that tells us nothing.’
‘If you study it carefully,’ Segalla said, ‘it will tell the truth.’
Ann shook her head. ‘Nothing makes sense. Darnley was left at Kirk o’Field with five or six servants. Two, Nelson and Symonds, scrambled out of the ruins; the rest were killed.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘I can’t understand it. How was Darnley taken out into the open? Why kill him there and then blow the house up?’
‘Perhaps he panicked?’ Segalla asked teasingly.
‘But the other servants who were with him slept on. Why didn’t Darnley try and save them? And how can you kill someone without leaving a mark on his corpse?’
‘Where was Bothwell?’ Segalla asked.
‘At Holyrood.’
‘And the Great Lords?’
‘Moray was in Fife, Morton miles away at St. Andrews, as was Lethington. The real problem,’ Ann continued, ‘is that we have a great deal of evidence that puts the blame squarely on Mary and Bothwell. The only drawback is, all this evidence was wrung from tortured men who were later hanged for being involved in Darnley’s assassination.’ She grinned wryly. ‘The murder at Kirk o’Field is not just a mystery but one which people have deliberately gone out of their way to create by fabricating an entire corpus of evidence: confessions, letters, documents. Perhaps some mysteries should remain so and this is one.’
Segalla pointed to the photocopy lying on the table. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘that’s the only piece of the truth you have.’
Ann looked down at the detailed sketch, supposedly the work of an English agent in Edinburgh. It had apparently been drawn on the morning of tenth February and depicted the ruins of Kirk o’Field after the explosion. On the left, the Old Provost’s House where Darnley had been sleeping was a pile of ruins, as Mary herself had written to Archbishop Beaton in Paris. ‘Not one stone left upon the other.’ On the other side of the page was an orchard: here the artist had sketched the bodies of Darnley and his squire Taylor, still dressed in their night robes, lying beneath the trees. Beside them was a chair, a furred robe, a dagger and what looked like a pile of rope.
‘It tells us what happened,’ Ann said. ‘But not how.’
‘I once thought that,’ Segalla said. ‘And how wrong I was.’
Ann became so discomfited at Segalla’s cool stare that she continued with her meal, eating quickly without thinking. Yet she felt so excited, she had lost all appetite. She put down her knife and fork.
‘I feel rather silly.’ She laughed. ‘Like a schoolgirl babbling.’
Segalla shook his head and gestured at her plate.
‘No, no,’ Ann said. ‘I have eaten enough. I really feel I must go.’ She played with a napkin to hide her confusion. ‘Dr. Segalla, you have posed me a mystery yet done little to solve the one I am studying.’
Segalla sat back in his chair. ‘Far from it, Ann. I admired your lecture. You set forth Darnley’s murder, then and now, in a correct and truthful way. You make no attempt to fashion bricks out of straw.’
‘In other words, I confessed to meeting a brick wall.’
‘Yes, you did, and that’s a good place to begin. Every book written on Darnley’s murder claims to have a solution. Yet every book overlooks those facts which mitigate against its conclusion. You’re different. You give a lucid account of the problem and go no further.’ He threw his napkin on the table. ‘Now you are sitting here wondering if you are having a meal with a madman, and for that I don’t blame you. Do you want coffee?’
Ann shook her head, aware that this mysterious stranger was about to show his hand.
‘I will let you go.’ Segalla smiled. ‘But tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, two packages will arrive at your house by special courier.’ He tossed a card on the table. ‘When they do, ring that number. I want you to study the contents of both these packages. The first will contain some pictures, the second the manuscript of a nove. . .
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