A Murdered Peace

by Candace Robb

  “A man in a ditch with his throat slit?”

  A nod. “The lad came across him a few nights ago.”

  “I wonder—a friend’s manservant did not return from an errand outside this gate. Could you describe the man?”

  His description fit Carl. “I took the body to Father Michael, in the small chapel just beyond.”

  The priest warned her it was not a pretty sight. He was right. Coffey had mentioned only the slit throat, not the shattered hand, the bruised and battered face. Someone had tortured Carl before killing him. The faithful servant had died protecting his lady, Kate guessed. She said a prayer over him, then gave the priest a donation for a separate burial.

  “Would that you could do that for all of them,” said the long-suffering priest. He asked no questions.

  She was glad of that. She wearied of lying.

  Halfway across the Ouse Bridge Kate became aware that Lille and Ghent had gone on alert, looking round, searching the shadows. How, in the press of bodies going about their late morning business they could sense that someone was too interested in her movements, she could not guess, but she was grateful. She had no intention of leading anyone to Horner’s house or Merek’s lodgings. Once over the bridge she turned down Coney Street, then into St. Helen’s Square. Time for a chat with Bess Merchet.

  Bess’s grandson Colin greeted her warmly, particularly after she carefully secured the hounds’ leads just outside the door, but he shook his head at her request, inclining his head toward the kitchen, where a man could be heard declaring that he had never been so ill-used. “Another cook about to walk out, I fear, and we’ve dinner to serve. Mid afternoon will be much better. I will tell her to expect you.”

  At loose ends, Kate stepped back out into the yard and found Kevin and Wulf standing by Lille and Ghent.

  “How did they know you were being followed?” Wulf asked.

  “So it was you following me? You saw them go on alert?”

  “Yes and no,” said Kevin. “We were following the men following you. Parr and Sawyer. Well, we were unaware until we caught sight of you that you were their quarry. They hoped you would lead them to Berend, I’d wager.”

  Not so clever as she had feared. “Have you found where they are lodging?”

  “No,” said Kevin, “and that is telling, wouldn’t you say? King’s men would command lodgings at one of the religious houses or the home of the mayor, perhaps one of the aldermen—but we have checked all those.”

  A busy morning. “So they would,” said Kate. “How did you rid yourselves of them?”

  “We came up behind them arguing loudly about a man in Salisbury’s livery heading into Toft Green,” said Wulf with a self-satisfied grin. “They turned and headed back that way.”

  She bowed to their clever ploy. “Do you have someone following them?”

  “No. While we searched we put out the word we’re looking for them,” said Kevin. “Now we thought it best to see whether anyone comes to us. We thought we might be too obvious following them.”

  Kate would have sent someone anyway. But Jennet’s eyes and ears would find them eventually. “Thank you for setting them astray,” she said. “Now I can continue on my errands.”

  “We will accompany you. At a slight distance,” said Kevin. “Best to make certain they are nowhere around.”

  She was about to argue, but decided against it. “Come on then. Jon Horner’s house is just around the corner.” If all went well there, they could move on to Merek’s lodgings, though the sheriffs’ constables might have already searched them.

  8

  A VICTIM, AN ALLY

  “I will not have a mess in here,” Horner’s housekeeper warned, her beaky nose quivering as she focused her close-set eyes on Lille and Ghent. Goodwife Tibby was a small but solid woman with a fierce frown so habitual it seemed carved into her face. “And I’ve no time to prepare refreshments. I am just back from market.” Indeed, at her feet were two baskets filled with jugs and wrapped parcels.

  “If you wish, we will speak with your master where we stand,” said Kate. “Let him know that we are here.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “We will stand here until we speak with him,” said Kate.

  With a sniff, the woman lifted her baskets and nodded toward the far side of the hall. “He uses his parlor as his office. He has taken to sleeping there as well. The roof above the solar needs mending and he is too cheap—” she caught herself. “You’ve only to knock. If he’s in, he will see you, I’m sure. Always ready to take a client’s money, though where it goes . . .” Tibby shook her head as she bustled off to the kitchen.

  Kate led with the hounds, Wulf and Kevin right behind her.

  “Was a mistress of the house here once, you can see it,” said Wulf.

  Large cupboards to either side held a few pewter tankards, some plates, and a skilled carving of a hawk on a pedestal. But all was powdered with a thick layer of dust. The housekeeper apparently did not see the cleaning of the cupboards, or, indeed, the hall, as her responsibility. And if Horner ate all his meals at the York Tavern, what precisely did Tibby do?

  Kevin had gone over to the door the housekeeper had indicated and knocked. Clucking to Lille and Ghent to accompany her, Kate crossed the room as Kevin knocked again, then shook his head.

  “Not here, I suppose,” he said. “Surely he would have heard our conversation with his harried housekeeper and come to see who we were. He cannot feel sanguine about her greeting his business associates.”

  Considering what Jennet had found about his finances, Kate thought such visits might be a rarity. Although there might be more desperate fools who used him as a scribe than she would guess. “Try the latch,” she said.

  Kevin merely touched the door and it swung open. Revealing chaos. The floor of the small room was littered with clothing, shoes, documents, bowls, feather pens—seemingly most of what had been on the cupboard shelves and the small desk near the one window. But that was not the worst of it.

  Jon Horner lay on a small pallet tucked in a corner, his face and upper body caked in the contents of his stomach. The stench of vomit was strong in the enclosed space. Wulf groaned. Kevin crossed himself. Kate lifted a scented cloth to her nose and whispered reassurances to her hounds, though she was the one breathless with dismay.

  Wulf reached the bed first, lifting one of Horner’s arms. “He’s not been dead long. There’s still warmth in the pit of his arm. But he’s not breathing.”

  “Choked on his own vomit?” Kevin wondered. “Or poisoned?”

  “Or both,” said Wulf, crossing himself.

  “Stay,” Kate ordered Lille and Ghent at the door. “Watch.”

  She entered the room slowly, shuffling through the debris, toeing things, wondering what someone had been searching for. A contract? The gold item Merek handed Horner at the market the previous day? Beneath a spare pair of boots she noticed something out of place—a woman’s glove. Picking it up, she fingered the buttery soft leather, pale, possibly lightened to show off the decorative stitching. An expensive glove, an unlikely item in the home of a man of Jon Horner’s means. She toed the debris around it, but did not find its mate. Seeing that Kevin and Wulf were distracted with cleaning the corpse on the bed, Kate tucked the glove into her scrip. Moving along, she looked at what was on the floor, what left on the shelves. Household items seemed untouched, for the most part. It was his business papers and writing utensils that littered the floor. She noticed a small pouch tucked behind a mortar and pestle on a shelf. Curious, she picked it up and opened it. Inside was an object that looked like a stone, hefty, yet the texture and faint herbal scent suggested a dried mass of plant material. She tucked it back in the bag and added it to her scrip.

  Kevin finished cleaning Horner’s face as Kate joined them. She leaned past him to close Horner’s eyelids. “If only I had called on him earlier,” she said.

  Kevin shook his head at her. “And been caught by the murderer?
God be thanked you delayed.”

  “So you think this is murder, not that he chose to end his life?” asked Wulf.

  “Look at the room,” said Kevin. “Are you thinking he made this mess and then drank down some poison?”

  “A man who drinks poison is not thinking clearly, eh?” Wulf countered. “No telling what he might do.”

  “He’s dressed as if going out, or just returning,” said Kate. “Look how his boots soaked the bedclothes.” Wulf grunted. “He began to feel ill and headed home?” she suggested.

  With the owner of the costly glove? Geoff asked in her head.

  Indeed.

  Lille barked, a quiet bark, warning of someone approaching, but no one she considered dangerous. Still, Kate stepped back from the bed and fingered the dagger hidden in her skirts as Ghent and Lille parted to allow the housekeeper through.

  “Mother in Heaven, what has happened here? Has he gone mad? Does he think I’m—” As Tibby focused on the bed she stopped. “Is he—”

  “Dead, Goodwife. Murdered,” said Kate. “How long ago did you leave for market?”

  A hand over the small mouth, eyes flitting this way and that, not wanting to look. “Early. Very early. My sister’s abed. Going to give birth any hour now. I stoked the fire and woke her lazy husband and her little ones. Oh, sweet Master Jon. Who would want to harm him?”

  “I hoped you might know,” said Kate.

  “No,” Tibby whispered, backing away. “He was always good to me.” She surveyed the messy room. “I will never get this clean again.”

  “Do nothing just yet,” said Kate. “Leave it as it is.”

  The goodwife put a hand over her mouth as Kevin proffered the sheet he had used to clean the vomit from Horner’s mouth. “This you might want to launder,” he said.

  She tucked her hands behind her and stepped back. “Put it out on the dung heap.”

  With a warning glance at Kevin, Kate slipped an arm round the woman and walked her out into the hall.

  “Men can be such lackwits. You have just discovered your employer dead in his chamber and he—I pray you forgive us, Goodwife Tibby. Might I get you something? Is there brandywine in the house?”

  A little shake of the head. “I’ve too much to do. With my sister—”

  “Oh, of course, you said. Forgive me, but might I just ask whether you noticed anything unusual about Master Jon this morning?”

  “As I said, I left early.”

  “Anything last night?”

  Tibby’s nose and cheeks had reddened with emotion. “No,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

  “A visitor perhaps?”

  Swiping at a tear falling down her cheek, the woman shook her head. “I saw no one.”

  “And you would?”

  A teary glare. “Did I not see to you?”

  “You did. It is plain you took good care of Master Jon.”

  “I did that. He was good to me, bless him. A good man, God rest his soul.” A sob escaped with the last words.

  Kate patted Tibby on the back. “Perhaps it is best you go to your sister’s.”

  A sniff. “I believe I will.” She shuffled off.

  When Kate returned to the room, Kevin apologized. “Wulf and I will raise the hue and cry after you leave,” he added.

  “Leave?”

  His dark eyes pleaded. “I pray you, we do not want you implicated in any way. You will be of no use to Berend if you are a suspect in a murder.”

  She agreed, but she did not trust the housekeeper. “What about the goodwife?” Tibby had no loyalty to Kate. Her master was dead, an apparently undemanding master. “She means to seek refuge with her sister. If she mentions me . . .”

  “I will escort her, and while we walk I will make it clear to her that if anyone should breathe a word of your presence, the blame falls on her, and she will regret the day she so misspoke.”

  Kate considered. “While you wait for the sheriffs’ men, there is something you could do.” She told him what Coffey had told her, describing the small shiny item passed from Merek to Horner, something Merek did not wish Horner to flash about. “I would guess that item is what someone sought—” She gestured round at the mess. “Or a document. He offered his services as a scrivener.”

  Kevin agreed. “We will search. Now I pray you, Dame Katherine, leave us to it.”

  Gladly. She had too much to do, and clearly no time to waste.

  Considering the fact that Merek’s lodgings had likely already been searched and were now being watched by the sheriffs’ men, Kate decided to head for her brother-in-law’s house across the Foss Bridge. But first she stopped at home to trade discoveries with Jennet and Matt over a hasty dinner. A hasty, tasteless dinner—Jennet was no cook without Marie’s help. The meal was not the only disappointment; neither Jennet nor Matt had learned much of use.

  As she rose from the table, Kate asked Jennet to put a watch on Coffey and the chapel. A murderer was abroad in the city. She did not want anything to happen to the blacksmith or the priest.

  Jennet was happy to oblige, but concerned about Kate. “Would you consider taking Matt with you? All the following and murdering, does it not make sense to be more cautious?”

  “Then you will be here alone.”

  “One of my lads is due here any moment.”

  “I have the hounds. And Elric’s squire is watching Lionel’s house.”

  “You do have the hounds, but these are not ordinary times. As for Harry, he can help you only once you reach your destination. And besides,” Jennet wrinkled her nose, “Matt is feeling useless.” She winked at Matt, who had perked up at the suggestion.

  “We would not want that,” said Kate with a laugh. She might make light of it, but she did see the wisdom in Jennet’s argument. She nodded to Matt. “Come along with me.” She was rewarded by his beautiful smile.

  “When will you tell your friend that her servant was murdered?” Jennet asked.

  “After I talk to Lionel.”

  As they crossed the Foss Bridge, Matt asked, “What if it’s clear Master Lionel is lying? Will you confront him?”

  “We shall see. I need to know whether or not he is injured, whether he might have been involved. I hope to ascertain that without challenging him, or letting him know what I know. Let him stew. Cowards are best left to their imaginations.” As they neared Lionel’s home she warned Matt to wipe the grin from his face and quietly observe. “I depend on you to hear what I might miss.”

  Straightening to the full extent of his considerable height, Matt cleared his throat and did his best to present a blank visage, but his eyes belied him, lit as they were with his excitement.

  Well, she could but advise him. Kate took a tight hold of the hounds’ leads as she led them into the yard.

  It was a large house, grand in its sprawl and the stone gateway leading into the yard, but lacking the attention that would make it truly gracious and inviting. The shutters needed painting, the oak standing in the center of the yard was scarred where branches had broken off, the splintered stumps giving a forlorn air to the place, saved by the clutter of abandoned toy swords and daggers and a headless doll lying in the dirt beside the grand door to the hall. Glancing round, she caught sight of Sir Elric’s squire Harry doing his best to blend into a small stand of trees by the river from which he was watching the entrance to the house. He had much to learn, as did Matt. Harry nodded, but no more. She did not do even that.

  Matt knocked but once and the door swung open to reveal Fitch, Lionel’s longtime servant. He bowed to Kate, nodded to Matt, and attempted to hide the shudder that traveled through his body at the sight of Lille and Ghent.

  “Is your master at home, Fitch?” Kate asked.

  Another brief bob. “He is, Mistress, but he can see no one today.”

  “Who is that, Fitch?” Winifrith called out from behind him.

  As Fitch turned to respond to his mistress, she hastily set aside her embroidery, hurrying to the door to greet her vi
sitors.

  “My dear, dear gray giants, what a joy to see you!” As the hounds smelled Winifrith’s slender hands she glanced up at Kate. “I fear Fitch is correct. My poor Lionel is abed with an ague.”

  Was it Kate’s imagination, or did Winifrith pause before the last word, as if searching for an appropriate excuse? Matt cleared his throat, a habit he had when he noticed something amiss. Good, it was not her imagination.

  “You look well, my friend,” said Kate. “I can hardly believe we were so worried for you only months ago.” Winifrith’s latest pregnancy had nearly killed her. Her body had swelled dangerously and Lionel and the children had almost given up hope. But she was deceptively sturdy.

  “Why, I am feeling quite recovered,” Winifrith said now, smoothing her skirt. With a little laugh she stood on tiptoe to kiss Kate’s cheek, then stepped back and complimented her visitor’s obvious health. “There are roses in your cheeks and sparks in your eyes. Is it that handsome knight of yours? Is he good to you?”

  Kate made a face. “Not you, too, Winifrith. Of all people I thought you would know not to trust such rumors.”

  A little shrug. “You are young, and without children of your own . . .” A little wink. “And who is this handsome man in your company? I do not believe we have met.”

  As Kate introduced Matt she searched her mind for a compelling excuse to disturb Lionel on his sick bed. For it was clear that Winifrith was uneasy about something, her behavior was so unlike her. It was more than a possible lie about her husband’s being ill. And once Winifrith remembered her duty as a hostess and invited them in for some refreshment before trekking back across the city, Kate found her behavior even more suspicious. A whirlwind of children rushing to greet their Aunt Kate was sternly sent out to the kitchen. Not at all Winifrith’s usual behavior.

  “Forgive me,” Winifrith said when she turned back to her guests. “But they are so loud, and their father’s head pounds when they shriek. I do pray you did not come all this way to see him?”

  “I had hoped to see him—I have some news about our partnership. But I also hope to spend some time with you and young Simon. I am glad to see you looking so well. And all the children,” said Kate. “If I might just have a brief word with Lionel, I believe I will cheer him.”