A Fall of Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Might I search the rooms that the players were given to use, Master Poynard?”

  The stiffness in Poynard’s shoulders eased. “You may do so and welcome.”

  “My thanks,” said Kit, and he departed.

  He made his way to the rooms the players were occupying and where Kit had spoken to Howlett the night of the murder. The passageway where they were located led to the kitchen, and a female servant hurried toward him from its direction.

  “Do you have the key to these rooms?” Kit asked the girl, halting her.

  “Me? Nay. Only our steward does,” she said. “But the lock is broken on that one.” She pointed at the door to the room where Kit had interviewed Howlett. “And those two have not been locked since the players come to sleep in them.”

  “My thanks,” he replied.

  She curtsied and hurried on.

  The nearest room was dimly lit by a grimy horn-paned window. It held a pair of trundle beds and a trunk and not much else—a discarded torn stocking, some sheets of paper covered over with the lines from a play and notes alongside in another hand, empty cups, and a chamber pot still full of piss. He rattled the lock on the trunk, but it would not release.

  Kit stepped back into the passageway. The kitchen servant stood at the end of the corridor whispering excitedly to another girl. They spotted Kit and jumped apart from each other, their cheeks flaring pink.

  “Fetch any of the players here who might have a key for their trunks,” he ordered.

  The kitchen servant curtsied and ran off. The other girl did likewise.

  The next chamber had nothing more to offer than the first one. Kit entered the storage room, stacked with the troupe’s supplies. Several more trunks occupied the space. Locked as well.

  “You have need of me, Constable?” asked a man’s voice from the doorway. It was the player who’d found Reade’s body.

  “Dunning, am I correct?” Kit asked.

  “That be my name, sir.”

  “Open these trunks.”

  Keys rattling, Dunning bent to releasing the locks. “There you be, good sir.”

  Kit hunted through the items inside each trunk. Wigs, outfits to dress as lords or peasants or maidservants. Jars of cosmetics. Baubles to wear. Three dull swords for fight scenes.

  But no clothing stained with blood. No sharp knife hastily cleaned and returned to a sheath.

  “What is it you search for, Constable? If I may make bold to ask.”

  “Any item that might offer a clue as to the identity of a murderer, Master Dunning.”

  Dunning swallowed so loudly Kit could hear the sound across the room. “You search among the troupe’s belongings for such an item?”

  The next trunk held more of the same as the first. “I have also heard, Master Dunning, that you and your fellows did not care for Master Reade,” he said, restoring the trunks’ contents.

  “Petty problems. That is all. The sort that arise among actors.”

  Kit looked over at him. The fellow was tall, his head well above the lintel of the doorstead. He’d ducked to enter. “Not a quarrel over a play he’d written?”

  “The play? ’Twas Howlett who … I misspeak. Mind me not, Constable.”

  “I would hear what you have to say about Howlett, Master Dunning.”

  Dunning cleared his throat. “Bartholomew had threatened to report to London that Howlett was stealing plays and performing them without a license.”

  Kit rocked back on his heels. “Oh?”

  “It sometimes happens that a troupe will thieve manuscripts, sir. When a troupe cannot afford the price,” he explained.

  “Whose plays had Howlett stolen?”

  “A few works from a minor playwright. Of late, though, Howlett had pressed Bartholomew to allow us the use of his latest manuscript. A three-act play that he had written but would not let Howlett have. Ah!” He smacked his lips as though savoring a delicacy. “It is a master work. Not as good as what Marlowe writes, ’tis true, but we could make our reputation with that play. Howlett is hopelost and fears the troupe will not long survive. At present, we have no champion, no patron.”

  “But Reade would not sell it?” asked Kit. “His reputation as a playwright would be made, as well.”

  “He’d not sell it to Howlett, no matter the price he might offer,” said Dunning. “Not many nights ago, as we journeyed to this very town, Bartholomew declared that he would give it to a friend rather than allow Howlett to pollute the play with his dramatics. Howlett cursed at Bartholomew most foully, but Bartholomew had no care if the troupe survives. He meant to go to London as soon as was possible.”

  Kit closed the lids on the trunks. “This woman Reade planned to meet yesterday. Did he name her?” And had he come to the village to whisk her away to London with him?

  “Her name was less important than her fair appearance and other attributes.”

  “Did Howlett also know of Reade’s intended tryst and where he’d gone?”

  Dunning’s eyebrows darted up his forehead like two caterpillars seeking to hide beneath the curls of his ginger-colored hair. Kit began to wonder if he was being duped by a skilled actor.

  “If I had discovered the location of the hill, Constable, Howlett may also have,” he said. “’Od save us, he may have done.”

  * * *

  “If there is gossip to be collected about aught that occurs in this village, Mistress, Marcye Johnes already has it pocketed.” Joan nodded at the door to the Cross Keys. “She might have a comment about what Simon did tell me.”

  “Will she share that gossip and risk being punished for speaking, though?” asked Bess.

  “A risk of punishment for gossiping has never stopped Marcye before.”

  Two men, farm laborers in frieze tunics and boots, brushed past them on their way to the door.

  “Come inside and warm yourselves, ladies,” one said with a wink.

  Joan shot him a glare. The fellow burst into laughter and pushed open the door. The sound of heated conversation and men singing spilled out, along with the aroma of baking meat pies and ale. And other, less pleasant smells.

  Bess lifted her chin, the ruff she’d chosen to wear rubbing against her neck. Dorothie always claimed that wearing a ruff made her feel powerful; Bess found them confining, stiff, and itchy. She’d worn it simply to impress the seriousness of her visit upon the daughter of a tavern-keeper. She would be rewarded with a rash on her skin.

  Bess and Joan entered the tavern. The room quieted, and dozens of eyes turned their way, tankards and cards and a tobacco pipe stilling midmotion. Women were allowed inside the Cross Keys, but Bess had never been one of them.

  The young woman tapping a firkin of ale noticed their arrival. She rushed over, knocking aside an unoccupied stool in her haste to reach Bess and Joan.

  “Mistress Ellyott.”

  She knows who I am?

  “This is Marcye Johnes, Mistress,” said Joan by way of introduction.

  “I would speak to you,” said Bess, “about an important matter.”

  Five or six years younger than Bess, Marcye was pretty in her youthfulness. She had a full, round face and expressive eyes. They surveyed Bess with a mixture of impertinence and unconcealed interest. “You are speaking to me, Mistress.”

  Joan grumbled.

  “Mayhap we can go outside and talk,” suggested Bess. “Away from the din and distractions. If you have a moment.”

  Bess did not await her reply, but motioned for Joan to head outside with her. As expected, Marcye followed. The girl was too curious not to.

  “Aye, so we be outside. Now what?” the young woman asked.

  Bess hunted for a penny within her pocket and held it out. “Tell me what you know of Master Reade, Jeffrey Poynard, and Ellyn Merrick,” said Bess.

  “Might be worth more than a penny, Mistress.”

  “Or, i’faith, it might not.”

  “You know the gossip, Marcye,” said Joan, prodding the girl. “More than anyon
e else in this town.”

  Marcye snatched the coin from Bess’s hand and pocketed it. “I hear she stays with you.”

  Had Humphrey told her? “Was Master Poynard jealous of her affection for Master Reade?”

  “Aye, Mistress Ellyott.”

  Perhaps the argument Simon witnessed had been between Master Reade and Master Poynard. And the woman they’d argued over had, indeed, been Ellyn.

  “Know you if he was angry that Master Reade had returned to the village?” Bess asked.

  “’Tis true enough he and Bartholomew had sparred over many a woman. Like two cockerels, they were,” she said. “The night the troupe arrived, Master Poynard came to the tavern to drink. And to beg everyone know he and Bartholomew were boon companions. All forgiven and forgotten.”

  Why might he have been so forward with his comments? Unless he intended to commit violence and sought to fend off any suspicion that might naturally arise.

  “Did you believe his professions?” asked Bess. “For Master Reade is dead.”

  “Such a sorrow,” she replied. “Master Bartholomew’s father grieves greatly, I hear. He lost his only other son at Gravelines, fighting the armada.”

  What a horrible loss. Both sons gone.

  “But only a harebrain would trust Jeffrey Poynard,” Marcye continued.

  “So you suggest that Master Poynard lied that night about he and Bartholomew being boon companions,” said Bess.

  Marcye shrugged. “I suppose she has blamed him, rather than name one just as likely.”

  “And who might that be?” asked Joan.

  “Not Old Jellis, the harmless creature. As gentle as a lamb when in his cups, unlike half those who fill our tavern,” she said. “Master Bartholomew had befriended him. He bought the fellow drink at our tavern many times. He would never have harmed Master Bartholomew. Never. The townsmen who say he would have done are wrong.”

  “Master Reade’s purse was found on him,” pointed out Bess.

  “Old Jellis did not do it,” she insisted.

  “Then who might be just as likely?” asked Joan, repeating her question, tenacious as a dog with its teeth about a bone.

  A coy smile crossed Marcye’s face. She appeared to enjoy making them wait upon her opinion. ’Twas certain they were rapt. A flock of sheep being driven to market could have rambled past, baaing and bleating, and Bess would have not have noticed.

  “I forget neither of you have lived here long,” said Marcye at last. “But David Merrick has reason. He might appear meek, but be not deceived by his unassured ways.”

  “David Merrick? What relation is he to Ellyn?”

  “Her eldest brother,” said the girl. “She’d seek to protect him.”

  They were to suspect Old Jellis, Mother Fletcher, Jeffrey Poynard, and now David Merrick?

  “But why would her brother wish to kill Master Reade?” asked Bess.

  “What reasons do men have for hating each other, Mistress Ellyott?” she replied, smirking. “One a bold charmer and the other twisted with envy of him. I need say no more, do I?”

  * * *

  What is she about?

  Across the square, three unlikely women had been huddled together outside the Cross Keys. As one was Bess Ellyott, Kit suspected he could supply an answer to his question.

  She is getting entangled in matters that are not her concern. Could she not learn caution? Could she not, for once, listen?

  “Kit!” Gibb ran up and cuffed Kit’s shoulder. “Coz, have you fallen deaf? I have been shouting.”

  Marcye Johnes returned to the tavern, and Mistress Ellyott and her servant hastened off in the direction of their home.

  “You have my attention now,” Kit said to his cousin.

  “We have found it!” He retrieved a knife from the sheath on his belt where he’d stowed it. “One of the town lads discovered the weapon. Tossed into a ditch some yards down the road. Do you think it is the knife used to kill Master Reade?”

  “No one discards a perfectly good knife.” With a broad blade and a carved wood handle, it was an eating knife of the type many people carried. Albeit sharper and sturdier than most eating knives. “Where did you say the boy found it?”

  “In a ditch between town and the hill.”

  “Which suggests the person who discarded the knife had been returning to the village.”

  “Someone will surely be missing it, Kit,” said Gibb. “’Tis a fine knife. Better than the one I use.”

  “The person missing it will not admit to its loss, I expect.”

  Kit held the knife up. A trace of brown stained the spot where the blade met the handle.

  Blood.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Sir, you are back,” said Alice.

  She followed Kit into his ground-floor office. Before returning to his house, he’d sent Gibb to search for a possible owner of the knife while he’d gone to examine the ditch where the weapon had been found. No bloodied garment had conveniently presented itself at the ditch or anywhere nearby.

  “Yes, Alice. As you can see.” He unfastened his cloak and handed it to her. Letters were stacked atop his writing desk. Among the correspondence was a note from his father, his bold handwriting stretched across the paper. It would hold no kindly greetings or fond wishes. His notes never did. No matter Kit’s success, his achievements were never enough for the senior Master Harwoode.

  Kit tossed aside the note. If a fire had been burning in the room’s grate, he’d have thrown it there.

  He looked over at Alice, who lingered upon the doorstead. “What is it you need?”

  She hesitated for so long, he began to think she’d forgotten why she stood there. “Sir, you cannot be thinking sad old Goodman Jellis guilty, can you?” she asked, the words tumbling out in a rush.

  “Should I not?”

  His cloak hung limply from her hand, and she gaped as though unable to believe she’d spoken to him.

  “Well, Alice?”

  “His daughter says he cannot be. He is weak and ancient. She begs mercy.”

  “His daughter has spoken to you begging mercy from the law.”

  “She is in service to the master my sister also serves. She claims someone else is responsible,” said Alice, gaining courage when he did not shout at her. “One of the Merricks.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Merricks and the Reades have a long-lived feud,” said Alice. “I myself have heard whispers of it. From the gossips.”

  “A feud over what?”

  She frowned. “I was not told, sir.”

  Just then, the front door opened and Gibb strode into the office. Alice curtsied and scuttled off.

  “Now what have you done to Alice that has her flustered?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the entry passage through which she’d disappeared.

  “Having a conversation with her seems to be enough,” said Kit. “She shared a story about a feud between the Reades and the Merricks.”

  “In truth?” asked Gibb. “If there is enmity between them, the Merricks had to mislike that a daughter sought an amour with a Reade.”

  “They might also mislike that the Reade she’d been in love with had recently returned to the village.” Was she the woman he’d sought to meet at the hillock? An intriguing thought. Kit sat at his desk, bumping it. The stack of letters swayed and toppled, spilling across the surface. “What did you learn about the knife?”

  “The players say it did not come from among their belongings.”

  “They could be lying,” said Kit.

  “I think not. They seemed honest.”

  “They are actors, Gibb.”

  “Fie on you, Kit.”

  I should not tease him. He needed Gibb’s help. Valued it.

  “Do not mind me, Gibb. You know the temper I have been in,” he said. “What else have you learned?”

  Gibb dropped onto a stool. “I questioned the players again as to where they each were yesterday afternoon before Master Reade was found dea
d. They were together all the day, practicing. Until Master Howlett sent them to search for Master Reade, that is.”

  “Did they vouch for Howlett?”

  “They could not. Apparently he thinks himself above them. Takes meals apart from the other players when he can. Sleeps in separate chambers. Does not game or drink with them.”

  Most suspicious, Master Howlett. “Did you ask anyone else about the knife?”

  “I showed it to the Poynards’ kitchen staff. They said it was not one of theirs. And you need not remind me that they could by lying, also,” answered Gibb. Leaning against the paneling at his back, he stretched his legs, encased in new deep-blue venetian trunk hose. At times, his cousin could be as much a coxcomb as Jeffrey Poynard. “I will continue questioning people. The answer is out there. For all we need do is find the owner of this knife and locate his bloodied garment, and we will have our killer, will we not, Kit?”

  All we need do?

  Gibb made it sound so simple.

  * * *

  “It is good of you to come, Widow Ellyott.” Mother Fletcher smiled at Bess. “Gramercy for your kindness.”

  Bess had returned from the Cross Keys to Humphrey’s sullen mutters. The old witch, he’d said, was in need of physic and dared to request that Bess do the healing. Why could she not tend to herself? he’d questioned. She was supposed to be a healer. He had muttered all the more when Bess had replied she would go to the woman and happily.

  And here she was, within Mother Fletcher’s musty cottage. Of mold-streaked daub overtopped by thatch, the dwelling appeared abandoned from the outside. On the inside—rushes in need of refreshing, linens chewed by moths and rats—the cottage looked little better.

  “It is not goodness or kindness that brings me here, Mother Fletcher.” Bess set down her satchel. She had brought her mixture of iris root in rose water to anoint the woman’s rheumy eyes. “You have need of my help and I will give it. I do not refuse anyone.”

  The old widow shuffled through the rushes to the room’s lone chair. It was pulled near to a scarred oak table and a smoke-charred hearth, its fire sputtering from the green branches used to feed its flames.

  Bess went to help her lower onto the chair.