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Authors: Lady Grace Cavendish
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to wake the dead.”
Honestly! Anyone would think I was made of lead. I ran upstairs as quietly as I could, changed into my hunting kirtle, wrapped a cloak around me, and then carried my boots down the stairs until I got to the door into the Privy Garden—where I astonished the guard there by pulling my boots on and lacing them, standing on one leg. One of the dog-pages brought me the dogs on their lead and we ran out into the garden, Henri in front, barking madly.
I went round the maze twice and then throughthe gate into the Orchard, where I let the dogs off the lead and climbed my cherry tree to sit and think in a good sitting place—the crook between two branches. I could see where the buds were coming, but it was still too cold and wet for them to swell yet.
My head felt close to bursting with plans. I knew exactly how to find out the murderer: Uncle Cavendish once told me how much you can tell from a dead body. For instance, if you shine a light into the eyes, you might see an image of the murderer. And if you bring the true murder weapon near it, the body will bleed again. So it was obvious what I had to do—I needed to see Sir Gerald’s body again.
I climbed down and went to explore the compost heaps. Ellie and Masou were there, bent over something on the ground. Eric rushed between them and tried to grab whatever it was, but Ellie snatched it up and held it out of reach while he bounced on his haunches, yapping.
“Ellie,” I said, “why are you holding a half-skinned rabbit?”
“We are going to spit-roast it over a fire and eat it,” Masou answered, as if this were perfectly obvious.
“And I’m going to peg out the skin and scrape it and cure it to make a muff for the winter,” Ellie put in.
I tied up the dogs out of reach and squatted down to watch Ellie finish her work. She was very quick and deft. She had already taken off the paws, and she was peeling back the skin as if she was undressing it. It wasn’t nearly as disgusting as you’d think because there wasn’t any blood. The rabbit was already drawn and gutted.
And that’s when the thought suddenly struck me: when I saw poor Sir Gerald with the dagger in his back, there hadn’t been any blood around the wound! Which didn’t make any sense because only
dead
bodies don’t bleed—and surely Sir Gerald was alive when the dagger went in. It was one more mystery and one more reason why I needed another look at Sir Gerald’s body.
“One of the kitchen spit-dogs caught it in the yard and broke its neck and I managed to get it off him,” Ellie was explaining about the rabbit. “I gave him the guts. There now,” she finished, handing the rabbit to Masou.
Masou had a long peeled twig, which he carefully threaded through the rabbit, and then he hung itover the fire, where it started to steam and cook. Ellie sprinkled some breadcrumbs over it while we began to discuss the murder.
There had been plenty of gossip and theories about it, one of which, Masou and Ellie told me, was that armed Scots had burst into the palace and murdered Sir Gerald in his bed in mistake for the Queen. I told them what had really happened and explained why it couldn’t have been Lord Robert. I
did
have a moment’s doubt, because I suddenly remembered Lord Robert saying that he hated Sir Gerald and reaching for his sword at the St. Valentine’s Ball. But then I realized that that was just silly—Lord Robert would never have stabbed Sir Gerald in the back. I’m sure of it.
“Poor man,” said Ellie ghoulishly. “He’ll hang for a clean bill then.”
“No, he won’t,” I said. “I’m not having my future husband hanged before I can even marry him—that would be stupid.”
“But not so bad if it happened after the marriage?” asked Masou teasingly.
“At least then I’d be a proper matron,” I sniffed.
“I’ll go along and throw lavender and rue on the scaffold,” said Ellie. “And I’ll tell him how sad youare—that’ll comfort him. And
Honestly! Anyone would think I was made of lead. I ran upstairs as quietly as I could, changed into my hunting kirtle, wrapped a cloak around me, and then carried my boots down the stairs until I got to the door into the Privy Garden—where I astonished the guard there by pulling my boots on and lacing them, standing on one leg. One of the dog-pages brought me the dogs on their lead and we ran out into the garden, Henri in front, barking madly.
I went round the maze twice and then throughthe gate into the Orchard, where I let the dogs off the lead and climbed my cherry tree to sit and think in a good sitting place—the crook between two branches. I could see where the buds were coming, but it was still too cold and wet for them to swell yet.
My head felt close to bursting with plans. I knew exactly how to find out the murderer: Uncle Cavendish once told me how much you can tell from a dead body. For instance, if you shine a light into the eyes, you might see an image of the murderer. And if you bring the true murder weapon near it, the body will bleed again. So it was obvious what I had to do—I needed to see Sir Gerald’s body again.
I climbed down and went to explore the compost heaps. Ellie and Masou were there, bent over something on the ground. Eric rushed between them and tried to grab whatever it was, but Ellie snatched it up and held it out of reach while he bounced on his haunches, yapping.
“Ellie,” I said, “why are you holding a half-skinned rabbit?”
“We are going to spit-roast it over a fire and eat it,” Masou answered, as if this were perfectly obvious.
“And I’m going to peg out the skin and scrape it and cure it to make a muff for the winter,” Ellie put in.
I tied up the dogs out of reach and squatted down to watch Ellie finish her work. She was very quick and deft. She had already taken off the paws, and she was peeling back the skin as if she was undressing it. It wasn’t nearly as disgusting as you’d think because there wasn’t any blood. The rabbit was already drawn and gutted.
And that’s when the thought suddenly struck me: when I saw poor Sir Gerald with the dagger in his back, there hadn’t been any blood around the wound! Which didn’t make any sense because only
dead
bodies don’t bleed—and surely Sir Gerald was alive when the dagger went in. It was one more mystery and one more reason why I needed another look at Sir Gerald’s body.
“One of the kitchen spit-dogs caught it in the yard and broke its neck and I managed to get it off him,” Ellie was explaining about the rabbit. “I gave him the guts. There now,” she finished, handing the rabbit to Masou.
Masou had a long peeled twig, which he carefully threaded through the rabbit, and then he hung itover the fire, where it started to steam and cook. Ellie sprinkled some breadcrumbs over it while we began to discuss the murder.
There had been plenty of gossip and theories about it, one of which, Masou and Ellie told me, was that armed Scots had burst into the palace and murdered Sir Gerald in his bed in mistake for the Queen. I told them what had really happened and explained why it couldn’t have been Lord Robert. I
did
have a moment’s doubt, because I suddenly remembered Lord Robert saying that he hated Sir Gerald and reaching for his sword at the St. Valentine’s Ball. But then I realized that that was just silly—Lord Robert would never have stabbed Sir Gerald in the back. I’m sure of it.
“Poor man,” said Ellie ghoulishly. “He’ll hang for a clean bill then.”
“No, he won’t,” I said. “I’m not having my future husband hanged before I can even marry him—that would be stupid.”
“But not so bad if it happened after the marriage?” asked Masou teasingly.
“At least then I’d be a proper matron,” I sniffed.
“I’ll go along and throw lavender and rue on the scaffold,” said Ellie. “And I’ll tell him how sad youare—that’ll comfort him. And
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