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“That’s him,” Nick said, his whisper frantic. “That’s the man who came to Cranfield House to meet with Simmons.”
Chapter Nineteen
“The Twelfth Night Cake has a bean and a pea baked into it. The man who finds the bean in his slice of cake becomes King for the night while the lady who finds a pea in her slice of cake becomes Queen for thenight.”
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Lucy looked atWilliam, who luckily did not seem to notice her. “He’s not Irish,” she said.
“Which man?” Greer asked Nick.
“The one talking with the woman,” Alyce said. “That is Jasper Lintel, the man who met with Simmons at Cranfield House.”
Lucy released her breath. Thank God it wasn’t William. He was a good man, and in his position as poison detector, Elizabeth would have been dead months ago if he wanted her gone.
“Are ye sure?” Greer asked.
Catherine, Alyce, and Nick all nodded.
Greer moved Catherine before him and crouched down as if fixing the ties of her sheep skin. “Have ye seen the woman before, Catherine?”
Lucy had and so had Greer. Mary O’Brien had been the cook who had caught them in the larder when she and Greer had been spreading strawberry jam on each other. Her cheeks warmed at the memory.
Catherine shook her head and looked to Alyce. “Not the woman, right?”
Alyce shook her head. “Only the man.” She turned away from the couple as if talking to Lucy. “But he was dressed differently. Not in red and gold. Yeoman clothes.”
Greer lowered to the ground as if tying his boot, and William walked past. The man and woman nodded to one another and turned in opposite ways. The woman toward the kitchens and the man toward the Great Hall.
Lucy tugged Greer over to the wall, and the children clustered around them. “Mary O’Brien is said to have a husband,” she said, “who must be Jasper Lintel.”
“A false name.” Greer crossed his arms over his muscular chest. Even in the English garments he looked powerful. “He wanted to get into Whitehall and used Simmons and his cause to do so.”
“But it looks like they were already in Whitehall. He as a guard and she as a baker,” Lucy said.
“He needed someone to buy the poison, and happened upon Simmons, Richard Whitby, and Mistress Wakefield.” Greer suggested. “So it wouldn’t be traced to them.”
“I didn’t see him the night Richard was poisoned,” Lucy said. “But his wife was questioned about the sweetmeats.”
“They are Irish,” Greer murmured, his lips tight. “I would gamble a bag of shillings on the target being William Cecil, Lord Burghley.”
“The Irish dislike his policies,” Lucy said. The old man was very determined and opinionated but worked in the background while Elizabeth took center stage and therefore was considered at risk from Catholics.
“Many Irish citizens have raised arms against English occupation and governing,” Greer said. “Burghley is the target, not Elizabeth.”
“It could be both,” Lucy said. “Take out the one who is pushing so hard for unificationandthrow the country into chaos by then killing off the queen,” she whispered. “There would be no unification then.”
Lucy’s heart thumped hard as she looked toward the Great Hall. “’Tis Twelfth Night. There must be poison in their food.”
“You said that guards were watching closely, though,” Alyce said, “making them eat what they are serving.”
“They can’t eat every part of what they are making, or they will fall to their own poison,” Greer said.
“Perhaps they are putting a little bit in a specific piece or slice,” Catherine said. She pinched her little fingers together.
“Keeping it contained, like a piece of ice inside a snowball,” Nick said. “The rest of the snowball is just snow, but ’tis the ice that makes it hit so hard. But then it melts away.”
Lucy’s breath stuttered to a stop, and she looked at Greer. “Ice. A ball of ice.” Her face snapped back to the doorway where the other actors filed inside with a great flourish. “Mary O’Brien, the night we were in… when I was fetching some of my strawberry jam in the larder,” she said. “Mary O’Brien was up very late, and she was dabbing small balls of jam on a sheet to place outside to freeze overnight.”
