The Queen's Spy Read online

  THE QUEEN’S SPY

  Clare Marchant

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Clare Marchant 2021

  Cover design © Claire Ward, HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Cover photograph © Stephen Mulcahey/ Arcangel Images (main image), Shutterstock.com (cover detail)

  Clare Marchant asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008454357

  Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008454364

  Version: 2021-05-05

  Dedication

  Dominic, Tobias, Laura, Bethany, Imogen, Gregor

  – you are my world

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  June 2021

  The loud noise as she exhaled sharply, a violent ‘psssw’ of air and spittle, echoed around the almost empty, cavernous border control area. A cathedral for a modern age, welcoming all to its hallowed halls. Or possibly not all, Mathilde thought as she stood before the sour faced man in front of her. Incongruously, behind him a dusty sign announced: ‘Welcome to England’. Most of her fellow travellers were now in their cars and continuing their journeys, whilst the final few foot passengers disembarked from the ferry, dusty backpacks on tired shoulders. Here she was though, waiting in this enormous, cold, echoing space while an officious old man in an ill-fitting uniform kept firing the same questions at her.

  ‘Do you have dual nationality?’ he repeated slowly, waving her passport at her, held open with his thumb, ‘are you French, or Lebanese?’

  ‘Oui, French,’ she spoke slowly to give the impression she couldn’t understand, hoping he’d give up with his questioning and let her continue her journey, ‘I am French.’

  ‘But here,’ he showed her a page of her passport, ‘it says born in Lebanon.’ He enunciated each word slowly. She looked at him blankly, slowly unfurling her fingers from the clenched fist they were gripped in and stretching, before curling them back up again. Usually her vacant expression worked, but this old man was tenacious and she found herself being marched to a small interview room where they gave her a plastic cup of tepid water, while they waited for someone to find a French interpreter. They were twenty-seven miles from France, how hard could it be?

  Opening her bag, she pulled out the letter which had brought her here. It was on thick, cream coloured vellum, the sort of correspondence which immediately convinced the recipient to open it. A frightening, bureaucratic piece of mail. The solicitor sending it had embarked on a long explanation about how he’d seen a photograph she’d taken in Amelia magazine whilst visiting Stockholm and had subsequently tracked her down. Given how she’d spent her whole life moving about to avoid being noticed, he’d been lucky. If the publication had used her pseudonym rather than accidentally printing her real name, she’d still be living her anonymous life. But the letter insisted she made urgent contact regarding a property called Lutton Hall in England. Norfolk, to be exact. She’d changed her mind about coming to England three times before eventually booking her ferry. She might not understand what they wanted, but it seemed these solicitors were extremely keen to meet her.

  And now here she was, as directed by the letter she was holding, en route to the village in Norfolk where she was hoping to find some answers. Or at least she would be, if these time-wasting idiots let her go. It was the same old story, someone with too much time on their hands and a uniform on their back who took one look at her slightly less than salubrious converted ambulance and immediately became suspicious. Especially when they asked to see her passport, the numerous visas and her place of birth showing she was always on the move. What else did they expect from a photojournalist? She wasn’t going to get many gritty, political or war zone photos sat in a one bed apartment in Paris, was she?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by another man coming into the room.

  ‘May I have the keys to your van please?’ he asked. She looked out of the window to where she could see two police officers, both holding on to the leads of bouncing, energetic, springer spaniels, barking manically. She smirked slightly. They wouldn’t find any drugs in there; she knew exactly what those dogs were trained to sniff out. Reaching into her pocket she held out the keys.

  ‘I have plants in the front,’ her eyes narrowed, ‘herbs, not marijuana,’ she added. ‘Please make sure your dogs do not damage them.’ His face remained blank as he took the keys and disappeared. She watched as the police carefully sniffed at the myriad of herbs and spices she was growing, but eventually together with the disappointed looking dogs they locked the van up again.

  Finally, at the point where she’d begun to
wonder if she’d ever get further than Dover, someone on the end of a phone was able to confirm that although originally from Beirut, Mathilde now held French citizenship and therefore had every right to be entering the UK. With a snarl she snatched up her bag together with the returned keys and stalked out of the room, her passport in her hand. She’d already had enough of this godforsaken country and she’d barely stepped onto the soil. The sooner she could accomplish what she’d been called upon to do, the sooner she could return to her roaming existence, far from rules, the authorities and a society she neither liked, nor understood. Somewhere she felt safer.

  Chapter Two

  January 1584

  All around him crowds of people, men, women and children pushed each other as they disembarked, standing on the quayside looking around in confusion, as if shocked they were finally back on dry land. The air was full of the smell of the sea, now so familiar to him he could taste it lodged in the back of his throat; sharp salt together with the harsh tang of the fish he was so sick of eating, mingling with the reek of sweaty unwashed bodies he barely noticed now. After two days on the boat his legs felt shaky, and although he was on dry land, he could feel himself still swaying slightly. A small boy beside him clutched a cage containing two small yellow birds flitting back and forth. He smiled and winked at the child who grinned back. Everyone seemed delighted to have arrived, even though thankfully it had been a smooth and easy crossing. Above him huge white cliffs soared away to a pale, cold unwelcoming sky. Tom questioned his belief that this journey would help him finally find everything he’d been searching for.

  A large hand slapped him on his back, and turning he was pleased to see his shipmate William. They’d become friends on the crossing when both men realised they were carrying similar luggage containing plants and bulbs. Despite Tom having been both deaf and mute since birth, the two men managed to communicate with rudimentary hand signals combined with Tom’s lip reading and writing some words on a wax tablet Tom had brought with him. A piece of smooth ivory overlaid with many layers of wax meant that he could scratch words in it then rub them over afterwards to use again. It was easier than forever searching for scraps of parchment. He’d needed to learn how to convey and share information from a young age, and his adoptive mother had taught him as they worked together in the stillroom where they created potions and medications from herbs and other plants. Now he understood most words and was never taken for a fool. William enjoyed the fact Tom couldn’t engage him in idle mindless chatter, and they’d sat together on the deck for hours watching the wheeling, ever-present gulls in companionable silence. He indicated to Tom to pick up his baggage and follow, and together on unsteady legs they made their way off the quay.

  They’d barely walked a few yards when Tom felt a pull on his arm and turning, he was face to face with one of the port guards. The man was speaking to him and Tom watched his lips in silence hoping to catch an occasional word he understood, to guess the gist of what was being said, but he was at a loss. His English was poor despite it being his mother tongue; he hadn’t used it for many years and this, combined with the fact that the man was talking rapidly, resulted in him being very confused. The wafts of foul, sour breath together with the man’s blackened teeth made him wince and take a step back. The hand on his arm gripped tighter so it was pinching his skin. Tom had no way of hearing him although he could tell from the man’s red face and the way the drool was flying from his mouth that he wasn’t happy with the lack of response. Tom was used to it. He attempted to start his normal hand signals to indicate his deaf and mute status, but it wasn’t easy with one arm held fast.

  Suddenly the man’s head whipped around behind him as over his shoulder Tom could see a fight break out beside the ship they’d just disembarked from, and then the guard was gone, running towards the affray. Tom wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to make himself scarce and hefting his sack of belongings higher onto his back he turned and hurried after William towards the road to London. His lack of hearing and speech made him more noticeable despite his desire to blend into the background and he was used to being apprehended everywhere he went. Suspicion and mistrust were the same in every language.

  The sack containing his belongings was heavy and his precious triptych, a painting in three separate parts crudely hinged together to appear as one when it was opened out, dug into his shoulder with its sharp corners, but Tom didn’t mind. He was pleased to be back in England, the place where he’d been born over forty years previously. His recollections of living here were hazy now, having been taken by his adoptive mother to France when he was still a young boy, just hours before they were hounded from their home by His Majesty’s men. After his father – the only father he could remember – had been murdered by the King. Killed for no reason other than having worked alongside a secretary by the name of Francis Dereham who’d been convicted of committing adultery with Queen Catherine, the King’s fifth wife. Dereham had been executed and his innocent father had died whilst being tortured for information he didn’t have. His adoptive mother had kept their memories alive though, in her drawings, her sign language and the saffron she grew. Nevertheless, he hoped to find a home here once more, somewhere he could feel safe and accepted. People didn’t like you if you were different, and he was certainly that.

  Chapter Three

  June 2021

  Mathilde stood for a moment in the gathering dusk, gazing up at the ancient hall in front of her. It resembled every old English building she’d ever seen in a book, and was much larger than she’d expected. Squat and broad, like a solid British bulldog dozing in the evening warmth. Washed with the soft pink of the setting sun behind her, the worn wooden beams crossing the façade in dark relief to the pale panels between, it reflected off the windows which mostly appeared to be made up of tiny panes of glass, shining and flashing at her.

  She looked again at the address on the letter she’d been sent. Lutton Hall. This was definitely it; she’d seen a tired, faded board as she turned off the country road. The drive was so long, she’d thought at one point it was simply yet another ridiculously narrow lane. Overgrown hedges and dusty nettles brushed against her van, until finally it opened out into this wide drive with a large courtyard in front of the building, the gravel patchy and almost invisible beneath a thick covering of weeds. The whole exterior gave off an air of being unloved and uncared for. Shabby. Mathilde immediately felt an affiliation with the place and suspected that nobody was going to be offended with her being parked here. She swung the van around so it faced back towards the drive. Always make sure you were ready to leave at a moment’s notice: the number one rule her mother had taught her.

  Going over to the broad, dark wood front door studded with black bolts, crouching beneath a smooth stone lintel, she realised there was no knocker or bell. She banged hard on it with her fist, before stepping to one side to cup her hand against a window and try to peer in. The room beyond was dark and apart from a few angular white shapes looming up, she couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’ Turning towards the voice, Mathilde felt her heart give an uncomfortable jolt. In the doorway stood a woman who appeared to be a similar age to herself, and although shorter she had exactly the same dark, deep set eyes under thick straight brows. Mathilde’s hair was much darker and lay in a heavy curtain down her back, whereas this woman had mousy hair cut in a bob. There was something familiar about her.

  ‘I have a letter about this house,’ Mathilde scrabbled in her bag for the envelope, which after having been removed and put back so many times was now looking decidedly creased and scruffy, a far cry from its original state. She handed it over, thankful it was in English so she didn’t need to explain. She watched the blood drain from the woman’s face as she read it.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ her voice was croaky as she cleared her throat, but she managed a shaky smile as she stood to one side, waving her arm to usher Mathilde into the house. She did as she was bid.

&nb
sp; The entrance hall was huge and every bit as intimidating as she would have expected from the exterior. The walls, panelled in dark wood and dotted with oil paintings of people with dour expressions, soared up to a vaulted ceiling like a church, decorated with colourful bosses high above her. With a large stone fireplace and a substantial wooden staircase winding away to one side it looked like a stage set. It was also extremely cold following the warmth outside. She gave a small shudder as she turned slowly round. The space felt odd, edgy, and the hairs along the back of her arms stood up. It wasn’t the first time a building had made her feel strange. Over the years she’d become used to her ability to gauge the emotions of a room, the memories of all that had gone before seeping back out, reaching to her. The silent pulse of a heart beating, soft breath on the back of her neck from someone who’d been there once but was long forgotten. She’d never felt it as strongly as with this building though. Something here had been expecting her. Watching and waiting.

  ‘This way, we’re in the kitchen,’ the woman said over her shoulder, disappearing down a corridor that looked as gloomy as the rest of the hall, and Mathilde followed quickly. The uneasy feeling of being accompanied drifted beside her.

  They stepped into a large, light, open kitchen dominated at one end by an ancient cream coloured range. It looked familiar, similar to one she remembered from her own childhood which belched out smoke and heat in equal measure. The woman was busy filling a kettle and talking as she did so, unfortunately far too quickly even for Mathilde’s reasonable knowledge of English, so when she turned around with her eyebrows raised and awaiting a response, Mathilde just shrugged.

  ‘Sorry, my English, can you talk a bit slower please?’ She’d recognised the word ‘sister’ as the woman was talking and was now even more confused.

  ‘No, no, it’s my fault,’ she apologised, pulling a chair out and indicating for Mathilde to sit, before taking cups out of the cupboard and holding them up. ‘Tea?’