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What was happening at Hampton Court?
Thirty-eight
KATHLEEN WALKED WITH COTTON MALONE AND TANYA Carlton. They’d paid their admission and entered Hampton Court, along with a swarm of other visitors. Two days ago she was home in her flat wondering what to do with the rest of her life. Now she was a clandestine operative working against a retired American intelligence agent, trying to retrieve a flash drive.
And all for a man who might have tried to kill her.
It didn’t feel right, but she had little choice. Mathews’ invocation of country had worked. Though her mother was an American she’d always felt deeply English, and her entire career had been devoted to upholding the law. If her country needed her, then her path was clear.
They were inside the Great Hall, another Tudor hammerbeam ceiling overhead. Magnificent tapestries draped the towering walls, a nearby guide explaining to a group that they were commissioned by Henry VIII and hung here then.
“Henry built this room and entertained here,” Tanya said. “In his time the bare wood of the ceiling above would have been painted blue, red, and gold. What a sight that would have been.”
They passed through what was identified as the Great Watching Chamber, where the Yeomen of the Guard were once stationed to control access to the king’s apartments. A narrow hall led to a gallery with cream- and olive-colored walls, broken by a chair rail, a threadbare carpet protecting the plank floor. One wall was lined with windows, the other with three paintings spaced between sets of closed doors. Tanya stopped before the center canvas, rectangular in shape, which depicted Henry and four other persons.
“This is quite famous. It’s called The Family of Henry VIII. Henry is seated and, from his stout frame and face, it’s clear that this was painted late in his life. His third wife, Jane Seymour, stands to his left. His heir and son, Edward, to the right. To his far right is his legitimate firstborn, Mary. To his far left, his legitimate second-born, Elizabeth.”
“It’s all imaginary,” Malone said. “Jane Seymour died at childbirth. She never lived to see Edward that old. He looks around seven or eight.”
“Quite right. On both counts. This was painted, we think, around 1545. Maybe two years before Henry died. It’s a perfect example, though, of how the Tudors thought. This is a dynastic statement about Henry’s legacy. His son, standing next to him, embraced by one arm, is his legitimate heir. His third wife, long dead, still a part of his memory. His other two heirs far off to the side. Present, part of the legacy, but distant. Notice the clothing on Elizabeth and Mary. The jewelry they wear. Their hair, even their faces. Nearly identical. As if it were unimportant to distinguish them. What was important was his son, who takes center stage with the king.”
“This is the Haunted Gallery,” Malone said, looking around.
“You know this place?”
“The chapel entrance is there, into the royal pew. Supposedly, when Katherine Howard was arrested for adultery she fled the guards and ran through here, into the chapel, where Henry was praying. She pleaded for mercy, but he ignored her and she was taken away and beheaded. Her ghost, dressed in white, is said to walk this hall.”
Tanya smiled. “In far more practical terms, this was the place where courtiers would lie in wait to be seen by the king on his way to the chapel. But the tour guides love the ghost tale. I especially like the addition of the white gown. Of course, Queen Katherine was anything but pure.”
“We need to know about what Miss Mary discussed with you,” Malone said.
“I must say, I was fascinated by what she told me. Elizabeth was so different from Henry’s other children. None of them lived long, you know. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, miscarried several times before giving birth to Mary. Anne Boleyn the same, before producing Elizabeth. Edward, the son by Jane Seymour, died at fifteen. Henry also birthed several illegitimate children, none of whom ever reached age twenty.”
“Mary, his firstborn, lived to be what—forty?” Malone asked.
“Forty-two. But sickly all of her life. Elizabeth, though, died at seventy. Strong until the end. She even contracted smallpox here, at Hampton Court, nine months into her reign and recovered.”
More people entered the Haunted Gallery. Tanya motioned for them to hug the windows and allow the visitors to pass.
“It’s exciting to have people so interested in these matters. They are not often discussed.”
“I can see why,” Malone said. “The subject matter is … bizarre.”
“Blooming nuts,” Kathleen said. “That describes it better.”
Tanya smiled.
“Tell us what you know,” Malone said. “Please.”
“Mary said you might be an impatient one. I can see that now.”
“You spoke to your sister again last night?” Malone asked.
“Oh, yes. She called to tell me what happened and that you had seen to her safety. That I appreciate, by the way.”
More people passed them by.
“Mary is the timid one. She runs her bookshop and keeps to herself. Neither one of us has ever been married, though mind you, there were opportunities for us both.”
“Are books your passion, too?” Malone asked.
She smiled. “I am half owner of Mary’s store.”
“And Elizabeth I is a subject you’ve studied?”
Tanya nodded. “In minute detail. I feel as if she is a close friend. It’s a shame that every written account that has survived describes her as not a womanly queen, but masculine in many ways. Did you know that she often spoke of herself as a man, dressing more in the style of her father or the lords of the time than the women? Once, at the baptism of a French princess, she chose a man as her proxy, which would have been unheard of then. When she died, no autopsy was allowed on her body. In fact, no one but a select few were permitted to touch her. During her life she refused to allow doctors to physically examine her. She was a thin, unbeautiful, lonely person with a nearly constant energy. Totally opposite of her siblings.”
Kathleen pointed back to the painting on the wall. “She looks like a lovely young woman there.”
“A fiction,” Tanya said. “No one sat for that painting. Henry’s likeness comes from a famous Holbein portrait that, at the time, hung in Whitehall Palace. As Mr. Malone correctly noted, Jane Seymour was long dead. The three children were almost never in the same locale. The painter drew from memory, or from sketches, or from other portraits. Elizabeth was rarely painted prior to assuming the throne. We have little to no idea what she looked like before age twenty-five.”
She recalled what Eva Pazan had told her yesterday about the Mask of Youth. “
And what she looked like later in life is in question, too.”
“Goodness, yes. In 1590 she decreed that she would be forever young. All other images of her were destroyed. Only a few have survived.”
“So it’s possible that she may have died early in life,” Malone asked, “as Bram Stoker wrote?”
“It would make sense. All of her siblings, save one, did. Elizabeth dying at age twelve or thirteen would be entirely consistent.”
Kathleen wanted to ask about what it was that Bram Stoker wrote—Malone had failed to mention that nugget before—but knew better. The name was familiar. The author of Dracula. So she made a mental note to pass that information on to Mathews.
Tanya motioned for them to leave the Haunted Gallery, which they did through a doorway that led into the baroque sections of the palace—commissioned, she noted, by William and Mary. The tenor and feel of everything changed. Tudor richness was replaced with 17th-century Georgian plainness. They entered a room identified as the Cumberland Suite, decorated with chairs of richly patterned velvet, gilt-wood mirrors, candlesticks, and ornate tables.
“With George II, this was where his second son, William, the Duke of Cumberland, stayed. I’ve always loved these rooms. Colorful, with a playful feel.”
Two windows opened from the outer wall and a pedimented alcove held a small bed covered in red silk. Baroque paintings in heavy frames hung from the walls.
“Mary said that you read Bram Stoker’s chapter on the Bisley Boy,” Tanya said. “Stoker was the first, you know, to actually write about the legend. Interestingly, his observations were largely ignored.”
Kathleen made a further note. That book was obviously important, too.
“I brought something for you to see,” Tanya said. “From my own library.”
The older woman produced a smartphone and handed it to Malone.
“That’s an image from a page I made this morning. It’s an account from the day Elizabeth I died.”
“I see you’ve gone high-tech,” Malone said, adding a slight smile.
