A Fall of Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  Gibb departed, his boot heels rapping against the staircase treads. He returned with the player. His nose no longer bled from his fight with the trader, but his green doublet had been ruined by the pummeling.

  Gibb closed the hall door and leaned back against it, his hand resting on the long dagger at his hip.

  “I know not why you hold me, Constable,” said Willim Dunning, shooting a look at the robe.

  Kit dragged his fingertips through his beard. “Tell me again about this robe, Master Dunning.”

  “Howlett had tossed it aside to be given to one of the Poynard servants after we departed. That is what he told me,” he said. “When I learned we might not receive our pay, I decided it wasteful to give away the robe when good money could be had for it.”

  “When did you make this decision?”

  “The morning after our planned entertainment,” he said. “The morning after …”

  “Yes, yes.” The morning after Bartholomew Reade had been murdered.

  “You said, Master Dunning, that Master Howlett thinks the robe accursed,” said Gibb. “Why does he make such a claim?”

  “Howlett believes it brings us ill luck,” Dunning answered. “We entertained a lord in Reading and made use of the robe for our play. The fellow who wore it tripped and fell that very night. Broke his arm. And lateward, when we traveled through Gloucestershire and the weather was most foul, I took it from our trunks to wear over my own doublet and cloak. ’Twas but a moment later that the horse I rode unseated me.” He looked over at the robe. “Damned thing. We would do well to be rid of it.”

  “Further, it has been the cause of a brawl,” said Gibb.

  “Aye. That is so! The robe is accursed!” exclaimed Dunning.

  Kit rolled his eyes. “The morning after Reade’s death, you, still intent upon making a penny off Howlett’s mistrust of the robe, decided to sell it. Most cool-headed, Master Dunning.”

  “Not so cool-headed, Constable. Petty and greedy,” he said. “But I was free to take it from our properties and sell it to the trader. No crime.”

  “Your fellow player claims the robe was missing the day of the play. He’d gone to look for it, meaning to make use of it. Despite its cursedness.”

  He fixed his gaze on Kit’s face. “All I know, Constable, is that when I went to fetch the robe the morning after Bartholomew died, it was where Howlett had tossed it.”

  “And where was that?” asked Kit.

  “In the corner of the room where our other properties were stored. The storage room that is next to the Poynards’ massive kitchen.” He paused, his reddish-yellow brows meeting above his nose. “A room any in the Poynard household could access, Constable, as we were not allowed to lock the door. They mistrusted us and would not honor us with a key.”

  “Did you see anyone with the robe the evening of the performance, Master Dunning?”

  “Nay, I did not,” he said. “But I was out searching for Bartholomew. And then … and then I found him.”

  Kit eyed the fellow. Were they any nearer the truth of what had occurred that day?

  “Why do I not believe your tale, Master Dunning?” he asked.

  Though the room was far from hot, Dunning began to sweat. He blotted his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I know not, Constable.”

  “Yes, you do,” he replied. “Tell me the truth, or I shall wring it from you.”

  Gibb looked over at Kit, alarm in his gaze.

  “As you will,” croaked Dunning. “I did find the robe and hide it.”

  “It was not in the Poynards’ storage room?” asked Gibb.

  “No. ’Twas alongside the highway,” he said. “Near to where Bartholomew died.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Gibb cursed under his breath. More profanity than Kit had ever heard his normally gentlemanly cousin utter.

  “Alongside the highway,” repeated Kit.

  “I was searching for Bartholomew, calling out to him. Telling him to stop his dalliance with his fair lady and come to play his part,” he said, suddenly keen to unburden himself of the secrets he’d been holding. “Then I saw the robe, tossed beneath a thicket of brambles and grasses. I recognized it instantly as the one Howlett thought accursed. In a trice I gathered it up and searched around for who might have left it there. ’Twas then I noticed the hillock through a gap in the brambles. Saw the figure reclined atop the mound. At first I thought the person asleep. I might have walked on, but I did not.”

  He paused to swallow and blot more sweat off his forehead.

  “Continue, Master Dunning,” said Kit.

  “I was struck with terror to realize the murdered man was Bartholomew,” he said. “And that someone might discover that the black robe belonged to the troupe. One of us would be accused of the crime. In my panic, I made haste to hide it away.”

  “Yet you sold the robe the next day to the trader, Master Dunning,” said Gibb. “’Twas stained with your friend’s blood. You would be the one accused.”

  “In the weak light that evening, I’d not noted the blood staining the black brocade, Master Harwoode,” he said. “Overnight, ideas crept into my troubled brain. The robe was worth a great deal of money. I am in debt. I decided to retrieve it from where I’d stashed it and sell the robe to one of the town traders. Be rid of any evidence that might link the troupe to the murder.”

  Kit considered Dunning. “Could Howlett have taken the robe from the Poynards’ storage room without any of the players noticing?” They had vouched for each other but not for Howlett the afternoon of Reade’s murder.

  “’Twould not have been difficult,” said Dunning. “But he would not ever choose to wear the robe. He was terrified of it, and the troupe has other equally suitable garments to make use of. Unless …”

  “Unless?” asked Kit.

  “Unless he plotted to make use of the robe all along, Constable, and merely did pretend to be fearful of it.” Dunning’s eyes widened. “God’s blood! Howlett!”

  “Take Master Dunning to the stocks to join his mates, Gibb, with the help of the butcher’s lad.”

  Gibb threw open the hall door, grabbed Dunning’s elbow, and dragged him out of the room.

  “What? I have committed no crime!” shouted Dunning, his voice echoing off the plaster walls beyond the room. “You seek another! Why not question Howlett?” He continued to shout as Gibb pulled him down the steps. A boot kicked at the staircase wall to slow their descent. “I saw him this morning. Searching Bartholomew’s trunk. He means to flee with that manuscript! The one he craved! Howlett wanted Bartholomew gone!”

  * * *

  “Why are my men in the stocks? We depart on the morrow! At dawn!” shouted John Howlett. Gibb had brought him to Kit’s house, and he paced the office. “Forsooth, I would we’d not come to this town.”

  In the kitchen at the rear of the house, a pot clanged to the tiled floor. Howlett’s shouting must have startled Alice. His shouting startled Kit. Within the confines of the ground-floor office, the man’s volume was loud enough to make Kit’s ears ring.

  Gibb opened the door and leaned around it. “Kit?”

  “Master Howlett is distraught but means no harm.”

  Gibb nodded but remained standing within the door’s opening.

  “Your men are in the stocks for brawling, Master Howlett,” replied Kit. “Therefore, you do not depart on the morrow.”

  Howlett dragged in a breath, his nostrils flaring. “I shall speak to Master Poynard about this. To the burgesses. For—”

  “—sooth. Yes. As you say,” said Kit. “You are welcome to speak with them.”

  Kit unfolded the brocade robe. “What have you to tell me about this robe, Master Howlett?”

  “It is accursed,” he said firmly.

  Kit tossed the robe over a nearby stool. “Why dispose of the robe now, Master Howlett, when I hear you have long thought it unlucky?”

  He hesitated before answering. “I had a bad-boding dream. A warning.”
/>   “Your dream spoke the truth, as the robe is stained with blood. Reade’s blood.”

  Howlett recoiled. “I know naught of how blood got upon it!”

  “One of your players has said that he searched for it the day of the intended performance but could not find the robe among the troupe’s belongings,” said Kit. “Where might it have gone, do you think?”

  “’Tis certain, Constable, that Dunning had already taken the robe, intending to sell it to a local trader.”

  “How intriguing, then, that he admits to finding it along the highway not far from Master Reade’s dead body,” he said.

  “He has confessed to killing Reade? Then why question me?” cried Howlett. “Accuse Dunning, who had the robe in his possession and sold it. He murdered Reade!”

  “What motive had he?” Give me a credible one, and I might consider the truth of it.

  But Howlett did not present a motive, credible or otherwise. Instead, he sputtered and mumbled.

  “This morning, you were seen searching the room Bartholomew Reade shared with Willim Dunning,” said Kit.

  “Who makes this claim?”

  “More than one person,” answered Kit. Unwilling to trust Dunning’s word alone, he’d had Gibb question the other players. “You had broken open his trunk. What did you want? The play he’d refused to give you? Did you mean to flee with it?”

  Howlett exhaled. “I did search. I confess. And why not? Reade had no more use for it; he is dead. But I did not find the manuscript, and I ceased looking.”

  Kit leaned back against his writing desk and folded his arms. “The problem remains, Master Howlett, as to where you were when Bartholomew Reade was being knifed on a Wiltshire hill. No one can account for you.”

  “I have told you. When Reade was not at the Poynards’ at the proper time to prepare, I went to search for him along with the others. But I went the wrong direction, did not find him, and had to return to beg forgiveness for the delay,” he said, his voice shaking. “That is what happened. Nothing else. Nothing else!”

  “I much prefer the tale that you followed Reade to retrieve that damned play,” said Kit. “He’d told you and the other members of your troupe that he’d give it to a friend for safekeeping rather than see you take possession of the manuscript. You reasoned that the friend he meant was the woman he intended to meet on that hill.”

  “No!”

  “In a passion, you killed him and his blood spattered this robe, which you wore to conceal your elegant pearl-colored doublet and trunk hose,” said Kit. Howlett wore the pieces of clothing now, his peasecod-bellied doublet shimmering with the silver aglets that hung from the tips of its many laces. “I must say that stabbing the reed pen into his throat was a theatrical touch, Master Howlett.”

  “No. No!” He glanced at the door, but Gibb barred exit with his body. Howlett might be taller than Kit’s cousin, but he was not likely stronger. “Forsooth, that is not what occurred!”

  “Where were you late yester afternoon, Master Howlett?” asked Kit. Around the time when a young woman was trampled to death in a barn. “Near to sunset. Your men cannot account for you then, either.”

  Gibb had also questioned them about that.

  Howlett had begun to sweat as much as Dunning had earlier. “I went for a walk along the river. I was restless and thought to clear my head.”

  “Did anyone see you there?”

  “Some boys who had gone to fish. Servants of the Poynards, I think,” he said. “I walked past them and saw no others.”

  “So you did not go to a nearby farm in search of that treasured manuscript, which might have been in the possession of the young woman you believed Reade had planned to meet the afternoon he died?” asked Kit. “A young woman you saw with him the day he arrived in the village with the troupe.” According to Bess Ellyott, who’d learned of the encounter from Anna.

  “No. No! To the river! I went to the river!”

  Howlett might be telling the truth. Or he might not.

  Witnesses. I need witnesses.

  “Take him to the stocks to join his fellows, Gibb.”

  The man howled protests. Gibb hauled him through the house and outside, the closing of the front door silencing Howlett’s bellows.

  * * *

  The doors to the hall were shut to the world beyond. A low fire crackled, the thorn long ago consumed by the flames that snapped the stems and branches Humphrey had stacked upon the hearth. The dreary rain that had begun to fall soured Bess’s mood, and she’d had Joan draw the curtains tight against the weather. The paneled and decorated walls and low-beamed ceiling seemed to press down around her. Quail lounged upon the tiles before the hearth, warmed by the fire. He twitched his brows at her, his eyes following as she sat, then rose, then sat again on Robert’s chair. The poppet itself …

  “The poppet,” she murmured, eyeing it where it lay, facedown on the stool that always stood near the fireplace. She had thought to toss the entire poppet into the flames as she had the thorn and watch it sizzle. Was it dangerous to burn such a thing, though, or was that the proper way to destroy it? Would it be better to bury the object along the highway or drop it into the river?

  “Am I so superstitious as to grant it powers over me I know it does not possess?”

  But still …

  It oozed evil, the hole torn through the red fabric by the thorn that had poked its body a menacing wound. Bess pressed a hand to her stomach just below her pair of bodies. Martin, what have I done by concerning myself with these matters?

  The hall door to the entry passage opened and closed, and soft footfalls crossed the room’s rush matting. Bess had no need to turn to see that Joan’s feet made the noise.

  “Here, Mistress.” Joan handed her a heated posset of milk and wine spiced with nutmeg. “Are you certain you do not wish to take some food?”

  Bess had decided against supper, her appetite failing her. When was the last time she’d hungered for a meal? Before Anna had died? Before Robert had departed for London? Before that awful dream she’d had?

  “My thanks, Joan, but I am certain.” She took the earthenware cup and sipped, the drink’s warmth insufficient against her chill. “Could Ellyn have placed that creation in the garden, Joan, without our seeing?”

  “She would never have done so, Mistress,” said Joan. “’Twas those lads that the servant girl heard, I warrant. That is the answer.”

  “Humphrey says Ellyn wishes to frighten me, but I only wish to help her, and she knows that,” said Bess.

  Joan dismissively clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Humphrey mislikes Mistress Ellyn. He’d spew no end of vileness and false claims against her.”

  Bess lowered the earthenware cup to her lap. “He also says you sympathize with her because of the fellow who gave you your scar.”

  Joan, her fingertips lightly brushing the edge of her coif where it covered the jagged red line on her face, dropped her gaze.

  “What happened, Joan?” Bess asked, for her servant had never revealed the whole of the story. “Will you not tell me?”

  Silence spun out, and the only noises were that of the fire, the rattle of wagon wheels upon the road beyond the house, the bark of a town dog that pricked Quail’s ears. The church bell tolled curfew. Soon would come the sound of the watchman’s staff rapping against the broken cobbles and scattered gravel of the road.

  “I befriended a whip-jack, Mistress, believing his tale that he was a sailor without a ship and in need of food and money,” Joan answered, her face blank as an unused slate upon which any emotion—or none—could be written. “In return for my kindness, he assaulted me. My friend came to my aid.”

  “The friend who watches Laurence for us? Who sent us that message?”

  “Aye,” said Joan. “We made certain that whip-jack would not assault another woman again, and vowed to protect each other ever after.”

  “That is terrible,” said Bess softly.

  Her gaze met Bess’s. “Which, M
istress? The ease with which sweet words did gull me, or our revenge?”

  Both. “I am sorry for what you have suffered.”

  “It is over and past, Mistress. Naught to be done now save not think ’pon him.”

  “I will not mention this again.”

  Her servant inclined her head in gratitude and resumed staring at the poppet. “We should take that thing to the constable, Mistress. As you did the other.”

  “I no longer know what he can do to help us, Joan,” said Bess. “I no longer know what anyone can do.”

  * * *

  “The family still sits at supper, Constable,” said the Poynard servant who answered Kit’s knock. The hall, which lay to Kit’s right, was visible through the entrance cut into the screens passage. The Poynards ate in subdued silence around their table. “We be most busy at this hour.”

  “I’ll not keep you long from your work if you take me to Simon now,” said Kit.

  If Howlett had indeed passed some of Poynards’ servants along the river, it was as good a guess as any that Simon had been among them.

  She wiped her hands across her apron and pointed to the doorstead at the opposite end of the passage. “He be in the kitchen. Come along.”

  He followed her down the passage and into the corridor that led past the various service rooms, now empty, that had housed the players and their belongings. Where a black robe had been tossed aside and a manuscript of a three-act play had been searched for and—if Kit believed John Howlett—not found.

  The kitchen was a massive room fitted with a vast hearth. Buckets and brass cauldrons were stored beneath the stone washing slab, and on the walls were hung racks and cupboards to hold plate. The aroma of cooked meat and onions and herbs filled the air, as did the noise of servants bustling to prepare the final dishes to be sent to the table. A tawny dog, gobbling scraps that had fallen from the trestle-supported plank at the center of the room, snapped and growled at an orange cat that ventured too near. Among the servants, Kit did not notice Simon.

  “You took long enough, Pitts,” growled a heavy-jowled fellow, his face shimmering with sweat from the heat of the blazing fire at his back. He did not look up from the tart he’d drawn from the oven, set upon the trestle table, and sprinkled with sugar. “This is late to be served. They will be wrathful.”