The Queen's Spy Read online

‘Yes, thank you,’ Mathilde nodded. Opposite her a little girl perched on the edge of a chair watching her intently. Who were these people, and why had she been summoned here? It was obvious the woman was shocked to see her but this was the address she’d been directed to. And there was no denying the look of astonishment after Mathilde’s letter had been read. She wished someone would explain why she was here, in this ancient house, in a country she had no desire to be in. Finally, they sat down with mugs of dark brown tea and a plate of thick cheese sandwiches on the table. Pushing the plate towards Mathilde the woman asked, ‘Hungry?’

  It had been a long time since she’d last eaten, and with a brief nod of thanks Mathilde snatched up a sandwich and ate quickly, adding two spoons of sugar to her tea and gulping it down. The other two watched in silence.

  Eventually she’d eaten everything in front of her and the time had come to find out what was going on and if this was some wild goose chase: une fausse piste. Holding up the letter, she flattened it out on the table.

  ‘I do not understand why I am here,’ she stated, waving her hand at the piece of paper. ‘This letter says I must meet this man, this,’ she paused as her eyes skimmed the letter, ‘Mr Murray, and it has something to do with this house. So why have I been brought here?’ She flapped the paper at the woman.

  ‘I don’t know why he was so secretive in his letter but it’s about your father. And his death.’

  ‘My father died almost thirty years ago, why does someone need to talk to me about him now?’ Mathilde’s voice began to rise in confusion.

  ‘No. Wait. Why do you think he died years ago? He passed away in February. In all honesty, I didn’t think they’d find you. Did you hear what I told you? I’m your sister. He was my father too.’ Jumping to her feet she snatched a small framed photograph from the dresser behind her, pushing it across the table. The man was standing in a neat, well-tended garden, his foot resting on the edge of a spade as he grinned into the camera lens. Her own eyes stared out from the picture and despite her not wanting to admit it, she knew immediately this man was related to her.

  ‘This cannot be true,’ Mathilde blustered, ‘my mother was told at the hospital that he was too badly injured in the bomb blast, that he had hours at most. He’d been coming to collect us and then he was gone.’ She drained the rest of her tea and glared across the table, waiting for an explanation. The little girl had obviously become bored with their visitor, and sliding off her chair she disappeared through a door across the room. Within seconds the sound of a cartoon on a television could be heard. Smiling and rolling her eyes, the woman went and pushed the door to, reducing the level of noise. She sat back down on the chair closest to Mathilde, taking one of her hands. Mathilde could see that her own fingers were much longer and thinner than those clasping it.

  ‘Your hands,’ the woman smiled as she stroked them, ‘just like his.’ Mathilde pulled them away.

  ‘So, tell me why I’m really here,’ she said.

  ‘Honestly, I’m telling you the truth, I’m your sister. Rachel.’ For a moment Mathilde couldn’t take it in. It was nothing to do with the language barrier.

  ‘Non. I do not have a sister,’ she replied, ‘why are you saying this?’

  ‘Your father was Peter Lutton – see, it says it here on your letter that his solicitor sent. Lutton Hall is the family home. Well, he was my father too. We’re sisters. Half-sisters. I’ve always known about you; he’d often talk about my older sister. He met your mother in Beirut when he was a journalist and as you just said he was on his way to collect you both and bring you back to England when the cab he was travelling in was crushed by masonry. A nearby building had been hit by a bomb. He knew nothing else until he came out of a coma months later, in a hospital in London. With a brain injury and broken spine, it was a miracle he survived so I’m not surprised your mother was told he didn’t stand a chance. His heart stopped more than once, his injuries were so severe. It was eighteen months before he could return to find you and by then you’d both disappeared. He never got over the shock and he never stopped looking for you. Whenever possible he’d be on a plane to Lebanon and later France, adverts in papers, everything. We spent many summer holidays there while he continued his search. To be honest I didn’t think the solicitors would find you but they obviously did. You look so much like him. He ended up working in London on Fleet Street and then married my mum. We’ve always known about you though; you were certainly not a secret. How on earth did old Mr Murray at the solicitor’s find you?’

  Mathilde could feel her whole body shaking. She’d been on her own for years. Ever since her mother’s death she’d been travelling in her van, taking photos and selling them when she could, often putting herself in dangerous situations for a good shot and becoming renowned in her field. And now it seemed her journalistic genes came from her father, a man she couldn’t remember. The dead father that her mother couldn’t bear to discuss.

  ‘My name was in a magazine with a photograph I took.’ Her voice came out in a stutter.

  ‘In Beirut? Did you return after the war? Is that where you’re living now?’

  ‘Non. No. We escaped when the bombing became too bad. My mother told me it was just months after my father died, or thought he had. We moved to France as refugees and settled there when I was small. I don’t remember Lebanon at all, and I’ve never been back. There’s nothing there for me. My mother wouldn’t tell me of our journey to France and how we ended up living as we did. The bombs, the death, it never left her. She was …’ she looked around the room as if searching for the word she wanted, hidden behind the shadows in a corner, ‘… traumatise. Now you would say she had PTSD. She kept everything deep inside. She died when I was sixteen.’ She felt her eyes well up as she remembered the scared, mentally scarred woman her mother had been, always trying to hide from the world. Scenes of her childhood, the whispering behind hands and pointing fingers at the ‘femme folle’, the ‘mad woman’ who wasn’t mad but mutilated inside. It was hard to imagine a young woman happy and in love, as she must have once been. And now it was too late, and she’d never know the truth of what happened the day he didn’t arrive to collect them.

  ‘Look,’ Rachel briskly rubbed the back of Mathilde’s hands, ‘I can see you’re in shock. I hadn’t realised you didn’t know about us. I thought old Murray might have at least given some explanation, although his letter does say he’ll enlighten you when you meet. I don’t think he imagined you’d come straight to the house and not visit his office first. I’ve rather taken the wind out of his sails there, I always did have a big mouth,’ she laughed. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything else, we can ring him tomorrow morning and make an appointment for you. And in the meantime, you must stay here tonight. The bedrooms are a bit musty and damp, but some are better than others.’ Her voice slowed down and came to a stop.

  ‘What else is there for me to know?’ Mathilde asked, ‘you just told me that you shouldn’t say anything more. Are there other members of the family? more brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No more siblings, just me. Dad had a sister, Alice, and she and our uncle Jack live close by in the old farmhouse. And there’s my daughter, Fleur,’ Rachel nodded her head towards the door through which they could still hear the television blaring, ‘she’s five. My husband Andrew and I live in Peterborough which is about ninety minutes in the car. I’m a primary school teacher and it’s the summer holidays now so I’ve been staying here during the week since Dad died, trying to sort out his stuff and clean the place. Alice has been helping too; this is a big house and there’s still a lot to go through. Although now that you’re here, really, we should go home. I think Andrew will be happy about that, he’s sick of microwave dinners.’ She laughed again and Mathilde caught a slight hysterical rise at the end. She realised Rachel was talking continuously, barely drawing breath. It seemed clear nobody expected her to be found and she still hadn’t been told why she’d been summoned to this ramshackle old hall.

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p; ‘So, what else is it you’re not supposed to tell me?’ she demanded, her chin jutting out. ‘You can tell me now. I will act …’ She held her hand over her mouth and opened her eyes wide, ‘… like this, when I meet,’ she consulted the letter again, ‘Mr Murray.’

  Rachel sighed. ‘I don’t suppose it really matters if I tell you or he does, you’ll know soon enough. Our father left you this house – well, the whole estate – in his will.’

  Mathilde opened her mouth and closed it again. Finally, she said, ‘This is a mistake, no? It has to be. He didn’t know me, why would he leave me his house? You’re his real daughter, it should be yours.’ She wanted to add that as far as she was concerned, he’d been dead for many years, even though she’d just been told it wasn’t true. Her whole life shaped by the false information that he hadn’t survived the blast. The reality was too much to grasp.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I wasn’t forgotten in the will. Our father made some very shrewd investments during his lifetime and had a nice pot of cash and bonds which he left to me. He knew I wouldn’t want to live here; my life and career are in Peterborough. And anyway, he insisted that as his eldest child this house would be yours: your birthright. It’s been in the family for a very long time. Look,’ she changed the subject, ‘let’s go and find you a bedroom for tonight and wait until you’ve seen Mr Murray tomorrow, he’ll explain everything.’ Rachel called through to Fleur who after much cajoling eventually reappeared and followed her mother upstairs where she was presented with a pair of pyjamas and ushered into a bathroom. Mathilde caught sight of an enormous, dull, white enamel bath that looked at least fifty years old and was almost the size of a hot tub. Only not as inviting.

  ‘The bedding isn’t anything special but it’s okay.’ Rachel pulled worn flannelette bedlinen in pastel shades from a huge walk-in airing cupboard. The hot water tank gurgled ominously as Fleur ran taps in the bathroom. They walked down a long dark corridor that seemed to disappear into a black hole, the end somewhere in the distance. Along the walls which were lined with yet more dark panelling, faces in ornate frames glared down as if furious their slumbers had been interrupted. Mathilde would need to wait until daylight to investigate them further. Rachel opened a door that she hadn’t even noticed and ushered her into a room.

  The two windows opposite had the same tiny glass panels between a lead lattice frame as downstairs, and threw in just enough light to display a huge bedroom. Hastily Rachel switched on lamps sitting on bedside tables either side of an enormous dark wood four poster bed, casting a more inviting glow into the room.

  ‘There are no main room lights upstairs,’ she explained, ‘so we’ve always had to make do with lamps. Apart from in the bathrooms, although there are only two of those and they’re pretty ancient. This was Dad’s room; I think he’d have been pleased for you to use it.’ As she spoke, she quickly started making the bed, throwing old blankets and a shiny satin eiderdown covered with a paisley print onto the floor. Mathilde was wandering around the room in a daze, picking up ornaments and putting them down, looking at pictures on the wall. She felt like a tourist, as if there should be a thick red rope cordoning off the bed to stop stray children from climbing on it and a volunteer sitting beside the door eagerly waiting to answer any questions. She didn’t think about offering to help, missing the scowl on Rachel’s face as she scooted around the bed numerous times, tucking in the sheet and wrestling with the heavy covers.

  ‘You saw the bathroom as we got to the top of the stairs,’ Rachel wiped her hair from her now sweaty forehead, ‘and I’ve dug you out some towels. Do you have toothpaste and shower gel? You can use ours if you want but I don’t have a spare toothbrush.’

  ‘No, no, I have these. In my van, I’ll go and fetch them.’ Mathilde hurried back outside before Rachel locked the house up. The night air was still, wavering between twilight and darkness, minutes that belonged nowhere in the day. The only movement were the bats swooping and diving overhead and moths gathered around the open door attracted by the light pouring out. There was no breeze, the trees surrounding the courtyard poised, waiting for her next move. As she walked around to the back of her van, she had the uncomfortable feeling someone was watching her but a quick glance up at the windows and around her proved otherwise; she was quite alone. Collecting her bags, she hurried back inside.

  Despite her long drive and a feeling of exhaustion that had crept into her bones making her limbs feel heavy, Mathilde couldn’t sleep. The thin curtains which appeared to be held together by a festoon of cobwebs which she’d noticed as she’d pulled them close, did nothing to prevent the bright moonlight from shining into the room. She lay with her eyes open, picking out the edges of the dark furniture. Her body may be tired but her mind was still running in overdrive as she tried to make sense of all that had happened over the past few days.

  It had taken several weeks for the letter from Mr Murray to reach her, the moment she’d submitted the photos to Amelia magazine she’d been on the move again. There was a protest scheduled in Croatia with some corrupt politicians potentially attending and she’d heard a rumour of trouble. It was always worth going along to such events. The letter had reached her whilst she was there, but she’d stayed until after the demonstration which had, satisfactorily for her, resulted in a huge riot with numerous arrests. Exactly the sort of outcome she liked. After emailing the photographs to several agencies, she’d packed up the van and spent a week driving across the continent until finally arriving at this strange old house, only to discover that not only did she have a sibling she knew nothing about but also her lifelong belief that her father passed away when she was a baby, was untrue. And now it seemed she’d inherited this old place from him. Very generous considering he’d never found her. If he had, all her mother had gone through, her mental health shattered, could have been avoided. Her shoulders felt heavy, just as they had so many times in her childhood, weighed down by a stuffed backpack, containing everything she possessed. Both their lives spun into a shadowed web of how they might have played out if he’d found them; it hardly seemed possible.

  Outside the ugly shriek of a vixen made her jump. She was used to the noises of the night; her van certainly didn’t muffle any of those. But here they seemed to echo around the walls inside and felt menacing, intimidating. The whole house had sunk into darkness as if she’d fallen into the past. A splintering of time, a savage edge rubbing against her tortured thoughts. The feeling had been there from the moment she walked in and now in the hollow hours of the night it was deeper, more oppressive. She didn’t like it. Was it her father, devastated that she’d finally turned up when it was too late to find each other? Either way, she decided she wasn’t going to lie awake worrying about it any longer. Jumping out of bed and pushing her feet into her Converse, she crept back downstairs to the front door. She’d seen the shelf where Rachel had left the key and a minute later she was curled up on the mattress in the back of her van with her familiar duvet and old crochet blanket pulled up to her chin. Her head was spinning with all she’d just discovered but as her breath slowly slid out and her lungs emptied, she closed her eyes and finally gave in to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  January 1584

  It took ten days to walk to London, stopping off to rest for two days in Canterbury where they were able to exchange some of the medications they were carrying for food and ale. Each time Tom delved into his pannier containing his precious herbs and medicines, his fingers would curl around a crumpled piece of parchment he’d been given in Calais, containing long black, stick-like pods. On the paper, the word ‘vanilla’ had been written.

  Whilst waiting for a passage to England, he’d used some of his comfrey, known to most people as knitbone, to save a ship captain’s leg from rotting away. It had been precarious, his stomach turned as he remembered the smell of the festering flesh, the worry etched in the wife’s face. His apothecary skills were beneficial wherever he went, despite his lack of communication. He’d learnt at a
young age, not even tall enough to see over the top of the workbench, by tasting, inhaling scents and sketching and labelling as he absorbed everything his mother had shown him. Her skills, learnt from the monks of long ago, were now his. A universal language. In exchange for his help in Calais, he’d been given the twist of paper containing the strange black sticks, together with a letter of introduction to the captain’s brother, an apothecary living on Cheapside, one of the main thoroughfares through London. Tom was sure it would prove invaluable.

  After days of walking in the fresh open air and drinking from streams when they couldn’t find a farmhouse to sell them ale, London was a shock. The crowded streets bustling with every shade of life, the smell of effluence from the drains running beside the Thames and the buildings hanging overhead, which were crammed closely together. Towering up towards the sky with floor upon floor jettied out further than the one below, sometimes as many as five storeys high. If they were inclined, Tom thought, a person could lean out and touch the wall of the house opposite. Even the windows were built out onto the street like glass boxes trying to steal every piece of space possible. Lifting the sunlight away and reducing the streets to gloomy darkness, whilst tall brick chimneys soared up into the smoky air. Sometimes with his keen eyesight, Tom would spot people lurking in alleyways watching the world go past, waiting for a chance to enter it momentarily. He could see people here were furtive and he held on to his belongings even tighter. His triptych, his paints, his plants and his medicines were all he had. That, and now his precious letter of introduction.

  Cheapside was easy to find, although Tom would have had trouble making himself understood with just his wax tablet to assist him whilst asking directions from the busy and seemingly irritable city traders. Such a simple thing to do, yet without his friend Tom may have wandered for hours until he chanced upon his destination. Here, there was more sunlight and fresh air, despite the street being full of people, horses, hawkers and traders. The smell of hot pies from a stall close to the tall stone conduit gushing water out for the city goodwives, made Tom’s stomach gurgle with hunger.