Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [130]
‘Now, the next real attempt was at the cheetah hunt … I assume they have also told you about that. The Queen’s pet hare was carried to the field and released by someone travelling with the hunt, during a pause before the final run. Of all the people I’ve mentioned, only Stewart and St. André were both at the menagerie and at the hunt; and St. André was in full view adjusting a girth during the entire wait. Besides, neither St. André nor his wife has any real motive. He is doing better under the present régime than he could hope to do anywhere else; he has nothing to gain.
‘But Stewart could have organized the fire-raising at the first inn we stayed at. He could have stolen the arsenic. Only Madame de Valentinois and a few huntsmen and he knew before the hunt that the cheetah would be brought—I made enquiries and found that, as indeed he hinted, the silly fellow, he had suggested the cat. So who else could have known to arrange for the hare on that day too? And finally, he was exactly the man I should have looked for: hard-working, friendless, restless, miserable; longing for Elysian fields of power and admiration, and getting very little return from his present duties and masters. The news we gave him the other day at the Keeper’s lodging through Tosh would have meant nothing to Stewart unless he already knew that a man called Francis Crawford was here secretly, and why. So that by stealing that poison from Tosh, he actually gave us the final proof of his guilt.… Anyway, he has gone.’
The conclusion was unavoidable. Richard had felt it in his bones all along. ‘Therefore,’ he said slowly, ‘if the Cornishman really meant to kill you … someone else must have sent him?’
Lymond had both elbows on his updrawn knees, his forehead on his wrists. Studying the mattress, he said, ‘Robin Stewart isn’t a leader, he’s a web looking for a spider. He found one. A man who wants to kill Queen Mary and who thought O’LiamRoe was me. He knows differently now. What’s more, with any luck, he knows that the Cornishman spoke to me before he died.’
There was a pause. ‘He spoke all right,’ said Lymond shortly. ‘He had to. He thought his breastbone was going. He told me all he knew so that I would spare his life.’
In Richard’s ears there sounded again the click, the dry snapping of bone, as the Cornishman’s neck was broken. ‘Clumsy fellow that I am,’ his brother had said, and laughed. Flatly, Lord Culter asked, ‘And what did you learn?’
‘Nothing,’ said Lymond, and laughed unguardedly, lifting his head. ‘Oh, God, I’m going to be sick again. Nothing. That’s why I had to kill him.’
There followed a silence. The man in the bed was holding his breath, his head averted on his crossed arms, his muscles hard. He had always been able to drink without showing it: the whole furnishing of his body must be in rags. Richard waited grimly, keeping perfectly still. How often did this kind of thing happen? And how could he possibly take his place at Court in this state?
Answering the unspoken thought, Lymond spoke without moving. ‘It’s mostly only at night. Then the soles of my feet come up like Empedocles’ sandals. Guts six shillings the dozen.’ He had apparently got himself under control. Richard waited a moment, then said, ‘You were telling me that Robin Stewart had an employer, and that the employer thinks you learned something that matters from the Cornishman. Therefore he will try to kill you again. And that is why you are waiting in France. The turtle dove bound in the ivy. Your favourite role.’ In spite of himself,