“I saw her with it. She tossed it into the weeds.” He sniffled. “I went to look at the poppet, but Little screeched that it was evil.”
“ ‘Little’?” asked Bess, straining to hear Kit Harwoode’s voice.
And there it was, along with Mistress Merrick’s. So far as Bess could tell, they were headed outside. One of the Merrick children came to peep around the doorstead, while the footfalls of the rest pattered across the warped floorboards of the parlor and down the steps, chasing after the constable and their mother.
“’Tis what we call her,” said the boy. “The little sister.”
“Ah,” said Bess. “Did you also see Jennet with the bottle you drank from?”
“No,” he said. “It tasted foul.” He squeezed his mouth shut.
Bess grabbed the bucket one of the servants had placed nearby and set it by the bed, but the lad’s nausea passed.
“The physic I have brought for you will help your queasiness,” she said.
Boot heels rapped across the floor in the outer room, and the constable entered. He held a vial of mottled mustard-colored glass, which he held out to her. The bung that would have sealed the long narrow neck was gone. “The bottle was still by the pit—near to another empty one just like it—but there’s not any more liquid within. He drank it all.”
The boy gazed apprehensively at the constable.
“A residue might remain for me to taste,” Bess said, taking the bottle.
“Do not risk your health, madam.”
“Do not fret, Constable. ’Tis too small an amount to cause me harm.” She slipped her little finger into the neck, swiped it around the glass, and raised it to her tongue. Bitter but not overmuch. She sniffed the vial. A faint aroma greeted her. “Artemisia, I believe. Known commonly as mugwort. Possibly mixed with savin to increase its effects. A strong enough solution would grieve anyone’s stomach. And this appears to have been strong enough. A mistake, by whoever prepared the simple, to have added so much. No wonder you are ill, young sir.”
Bess patted the boy’s hand and gave back the vial to the constable.
“What is its use?” he asked.
“Artemisia by itself can calm the fits that come with ague and ease inflammations,” she said, staring at the glass. In the room’s dim light, it glowed an evil yellow. Her gaze moved from the bottle to the constable’s face. “More importantly, and mayhap more relevantly, at the right concentration it may start a woman’s monthly flows.”
And thereby, perhaps, remove an unwanted child from her womb.
CHAPTER 20
“Why did you not tell me before about finding the witch’s effigy, Jennet?” asked Kit.
They stood in the Merricks’ low-ceilinged hall. The room had recently been strewn with a large quantity of meadowsweet to scent the space, its pungent smell so overpowering Kit longed for an open window. Mistress Ellyott had left the sick boy in the care of one of the other servants—the lad’s mother would not be convinced that his illness was not catching—to stand near the unlit hearth. Her unhappiness read in every line of her face.
“I was affrighted by it.” Jennet squeezed her work-worn hands together. “I went to toss a broken cup in the rubbish pit and saw it by the barn. I thought the poppet was for me. I did not want to tell you, Constable, lest the curse strike me too for speaking about it.”
“Why might you think the poppet was meant for you, Jennet?” asked Bess Ellyott.
“Foolishness.” The girl shook her head, the strings of her coif flapping beneath her chin. “I was affrighted. I sought to be rid of it. I threw it toward the fence. I should not have touched it.”
“Did it have a note attached to it?” he asked.
The girl tucked her brows together. “No.”
“The boy”—Kit didn’t know his name—“drank from this bottle.” He held the vial up to the light coming through the broad window. “He found it near the rubbish pit. Did you notice the vial when you went to discard that broken cup?”
Jennet eyed the bottle he held. “I cannot say, sir. The poppet scared me so greatly I’d not have seen anything but it.”
Kit set the vial on the table at his side.
“The young master’s illness is similar to what Anna suffered from,” said Mistress Ellyott. “Might she have also drank from that bottle?”
“Anna would not make herself sick wittingly, Mistress. ’Twould keep her away from her work,” she said. “Not a one of us would do so.”
“Think carefully, Jennet,” said Mistress Ellyott. “Did Anna mention a strange taste of food or drink the day she fell ill?” She looked over at Kit. “I did not ask Anna when I tended her, for I’d presumed she had simply eaten something spoiled.”
“She misliked the ale we’d been served with our dinner that day,” said Jennet. “She said she could not fathom how I had swallowed it all so happily. I did not think it untasty, though.”
“No one else said it tasted foul?” asked Kit.
“No one, Constable, that I remember.”
“And this bottle, Jennet.” Kit tapped the vial with a fingertip. “Have you ever seen one like it in this house?”
“There are bottles the same as it in the mistress’s workroom,” she replied. “Where she makes her simples.”
“Do you mean Mistress Merrick?” asked Mistress Ellyott.
“Nay. Mistress Ellyn,” said the girl.
“Can only Mistress Ellyn access her workroom?” asked Kit.
“Most usually, yes, but the key has been lost some weeks now,” answered Jennet. “Master Merrick was too busy to attend to its replacement before he left for the cheese fair in Burford.”
“So anyone could have gone into Mistress Ellyn’s workroom and retrieved one of those bottles and mayhap even made use of the simples she’d prepared?” asked Bess Ellyott.
“Might be possible, Mistress,” said the girl. “Though who would dare? ’Twas Mistress Ellyn’s room, and she is most protective of it.”
* * *
“You suspect Ellyn Merrick of poisoning Anna,” said Bess. She shifted the strap of her satchel and gathered her skirts to attempt to match the constable’s lengthy strides. All she succeeded in doing, though, was kicking up mud and grit from the road and onto her stockings.
He looked over at her. “Have I said that?”
“I attempt to extract your thoughts from your head, Constable, where you keep them so carefully stored.”
They rounded the curve in the road. Soon they would pass the lane that led to the blackened remains of Mother Fletcher’s cottage. And farther along, the mound, its evil yet spreading its tentacles across the village and the surrounding countryside.
“I have not concluded Ellyn Merrick was the one who tainted the girl’s drink,” said the constable. “It could have been someone else in the household, wanting to keep Anna from her tryst with Reade.”
“Ellyn most likely prepared the simple, however, since she had a specific reason to consume artemisia,” said Bess.
The lane to Mother Fletcher’s cottage came and went. But the old fort hill, the supposed druids’ mound, loomed ahead. The constable took Bess’s elbow and drew her nearer to him. A comfort she was grateful for.
“If Ellyn also drank the mugwort, to be rid of her child, why did she not vomit the physic harmlessly away like her brother and Anna?” he asked.
“She did, some,” said Bess, recalling the mess streaking the front of Ellyn’s bodice the night she’d collapsed at the garden gate. “Mayhap she’d been taking sips for days, waiting for it to take effect, and finally became desperate to drink more. When finished, Ellyn discarded the vial at the rubbish pit. Then her blood began to flow, and she became alarmed and ran to me.”
“Very reasonable thoughts, Mistress,” he said. “I should inform you that a bloodied robe has been found. It belonged to the troupe of players.”
“One of them murdered Master Reade.”
“Possibly the master of the troupe, Mistress.”
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They passed the hillock. Constable Harwoode did not release his hold upon her arm, though. She also did not beg him to let go.
Bess rolled her lips together. My next question will not please him …
“What, though, do we make of the second poppet?” she asked, once the mound was far behind them and the cottages at the edge of town drew near.
He halted. “A second poppet?” he asked, his brows lowering.
“Yes,” she said. “The one left for me.”
* * *
“Mistress Ellyott. Your servant woman said you would return anon, and here you are.” Jeffrey Poynard made a long leg. “But was that the constable I heard shouting outside?”
Alerted by Joan to his presence in the hall, Bess had entered to find him inspecting the painted designs of vines and flowers that framed the room’s street-facing window. Mayhap he was jealous of Robert’s good taste.
“Constable Harwoode accompanied me from the Merricks’, where I had attended to their youngest boy. Upon our approach into town, he received a piece of news that greatly distressed him,” she said, handing off her satchel and cloak to Joan, who’d accompanied her into the room.
“News about his investigation of Master Reade’s murder?” he asked. “Rumors swirl that bets placed at the Cross Keys indicate Master Howlett will be accused.”
Gossip flying faster than birds upon their wings. “Do any at the Cross Keys place bets upon the name of the one who set fire to Mother Fletcher’s cottage?”
He smirked over her question. “Why might they?”
Indeed. Why might they. “I am not free to speak on such matters as concern the constable, Master Poynard,” said Bess. “Joan, bring ale for our visitor.”
“No need, Mistress,” he said. “I shall not stay long.”
Joan departed, closing the door only partway. She’d not leave Bess utterly alone with the odious fellow.
“I pray that young Master Merrick is not too ill,” he said.
“He suffers from the same sickness that afflicted Anna Webb. Curious, think you not?”
“Children and servants. I understand none of them.”
His smile was apologetic. She did not trust the veracity of it.
“What brings you to my home today, Master Poynard?” she asked, as he’d not bothered to previously attend to the woman he should be there to visit. “Assuredly you did not come to inspect the decorations on the walls of my brother’s house.”
His gaze wandered to the nearest painted flowers. “They are most fine, Mistress Ellyott.”
“I can recommend to you the painter who did the work.” Were they to dance about the topic all the day? “But such trifles are not why you are here.”
“You are bold indeed,” he said. Boldness he’d likely be pleased to tell Robert all about once her brother returned. “I have come to fetch Ellyn.”
“To where?”
“To my home, Mistress. Where else?” he asked. “My father is prepared to welcome her. And soon we will wed.”
“She will not go with you.”
“Nay, Mistress Ellyott. You are mistaken,” said a voice from the doorway. Ellyn stepped into the hall and looked over at Jeffrey Poynard. Her eyes had gone hard as glass, and the line of her jaw was stiffly set. She would not ever cower. “I will go with him.”
* * *
“A second poppet, Gibb,” said Kit.
He stared out the window of his office, his hands folded behind his back. Overhead, tables and chairs scraped across the hall floor. Tonight was Frances’s supper—Gibb had relayed that his sister had sworn she’d arrive at Kit’s house with her friend Beatrix whether he liked it or not—and Alice was in a frenzy of preparation. Outside in the market square, the usual commotion of townsfolk about their daily tasks was reaching a midday peak. Servants were at the well. A horse and rider trotted toward the inn. A pair of merchants in their embroidered robes, thick ruffs, and velvet caps strolled together, deep in conversation. The poulterer carried a brace of flapping chickens into his shop. One of the carpenter’s apprentices paused to spit at the players in the stocks.
“A second poppet?” asked Gibb.
“Left in Mistress Ellyott’s garden yesterday.”
“Marry, what ill news.” The stool his cousin sat on creaked as he shifted his weight. “Does Master Howlett know her?”
“Not that I can say, which troubles me. What reason has he to threaten her with a poppet?”
“He is not our murderer, then,” said his cousin, disheartened.
“Do not presume we’re wrong about him, Gibb,” he said. “But what have I missed?”
“Are you asking me, Kit?”
He glanced over his shoulder at Gibb. “Is there someone else in the room?”
“As often as you mutter to yourself, coz, I can never be certain,” he replied.
Kit dragged over the chair by his writing desk and sat facing Gibb. “As you are here, perhaps you can help.”
“Gladly I would.” His cousin sat forward. “Anything to avoid my father, who wishes to review the accounts I drew up for Michaelmas. He claims I have erred and would like to correct me.”
“In that case, I’ll save you from my uncle’s wrath.” Where to start? “Let us set aside Howlett as our murderer for the present and return again to the beginning. When a troupe of players arrives in the village, brought here on Bartholomew Reade’s suggestion. To be hosted by the Poynards.”
“Jeffrey Poynard accepted the offer, though he knew Master Reade to have once been Ellyn Merrick’s suitor.”
“So mark that as the first of many irregularities in this tragedy, Gibb,” said Kit. “Reade and Howlett have argued on the journey here. Over a play that Reade has written. His great work. The one that shall make his name, but which he’ll not let the troupe perform. A troupe that has lost its patron and is in dire need of funds. His fellow actors already despise Reade’s arrogance. His unwillingness to help only adds to their resentment.”
“Master Howlett is furious with him.”
“Just so,” agreed Kit. “Howlett hopes, though, to profit from the visit to the Poynards.”
“Upon arriving here, Master Reade arranges a meeting with Anna Webb,” continued Gibb. “Possibly to give her the manuscript for safekeeping … we have covered this before, coz.”
“Humor me, Gibb.” More scraping across the floor over Kit’s head was followed by a thud as Alice knocked over something heavy. “They may, in truth, have only meant to whisper together over their plans to go to London. Reade, though, has boasted of this meeting.”
“If Reade meant to hand off the manuscript to Anna Webb, Kit, why be so bold as to speak his intentions aloud and risk Master Howlett learning of his plans?”
“He did not care if Howlett knew. Or Reade simply enjoyed boasting.” Kit buffed his fingers against his beard and realized it had grown long and required a trim. Time for such niceties later. “Meanwhile, Ellyn Merrick learns that the man she loves has returned to the village. Unfortunately, she carries Jeffrey Poynard’s child, and she undoubtedly presumes Reade will not want her if she bears another man’s bastard. She plots to be rid of it. And quickly.”
“The contents of the vial that sickened the young Merrick lad,” said Gibb. “You should arrest her for killing the child.”
“We have no witnesses to state they observed her actually drinking the physic, Gibb. Without witnesses or a confession from Ellyn Merrick, we cannot,” he explained. “Ellyn Merrick overhears Anna chattering about Reade. She might assume the girl hopes to go with him to London. She can’t have been happy.”
“So she poisons the girl with some concoction to stop her?”
“Ellyn Merrick had the greatest reason, although the fellow appears to have charmed many women in this village. Marcye’s eyes grow soft when she speaks of him. Mayhap he charmed other women at the Merricks’ as well.” Kit folded his arms atop his stomach. “Here now we arrive at the afternoon of interest. Reade heads to his tryst at
the old fort hill. He may have taken his valuable play with him.”
“Do not forget, Kit, that the very morning of the day Master Reade died, he was observed arguing with David Merrick. Over a woman Master Merrick wished Master Reade to stay away from,” said Gibb.
“I asked Merrick about that argument,” said Kit. “He says he was warning Reade to stay away from one of their dairymaids. But would Merrick bother to protect a dairymaid’s reputation?”
“He might if they were lovers, Kit,” said his cousin. “If David Merrick meant Anna, did he know the time and place of her tryst with Bartholomew Reade?”
“Servants gossip. Masters overhear,” said Kit. “Meanwhile, a killer plots his crime. He has obtained a fur-trimmed black robe from among the troupe’s belongings to hide within.”
“Wait.” Gibb held up a hand. “How did the killer obtain the robe? Only the players, Master Howlett, and the Poynards had access to the room wherein it was stored.”
“Agreed. Thus Howlett remains our uppermost suspect,” he said. “But let us continue. Reade is at the mound, waiting for Anna Webb, who doesn’t arrive. In the trees nearby sleeps a drunken old man. The killer approaches Reade—”
Gibb interrupted again. “Could this fellow have done so without Master Reade hearing his approach?”
“Reade must have dozed while he waited for Anna and was inattentive, for his own weapon lay at his side, unbloodied,” said Kit. “He had drawn his knife but not used it. Suggesting to me that Reade was taken by surprise. He was stabbed repeatedly, the final copestone of the act to be the thrust of a broken writing pen into his throat. The work of a very angry individual.”
Gibb’s stomach grumbled, and he pressed a hand atop his doublet. “Do not scowl at me, coz. I’ll not request food. You may go on.”
“Perhaps Jellis stirs at this point, alerting the killer to his presence,” said Kit, resuming his tale. “The killer strikes the old man, knocking him senseless, and the murderer strips Reade of his belt and purse and places it with the drunkard. He rushes toward town, discarding the knife into a ditch. He also tosses aside the bloodied robe.”
A Fall of Shadows Page 22
