“I trust you have disposed of the poppet,” said Dorothie.
“I have locked it inside a box stored within Robert’s parlor. I know not what else to do with the thing.” She glanced over at her sister. “Dorothie, have you seen a clouted countrywoman upon the roads of late? She is secretive in demeanor.”
“Secretive? No, I have not, Elizabeth,” said her sister. “You trouble yourself with matters you should not. If Robert were here, you would behave with more propriety.”
“But Robert is not here to scold me.”
“Which leaves me the unenviable duty of taking charge of you in his place.”
Jesu.
* * *
Alice pranced anxiously outside the door to Kit’s house. “They are all of them in your office, sir.”
“Who, Alice?” he asked. Beyond the panes of wavy glass moved the shapes of men.
“The coroner,” she said. “Other important folk.”
“Ah. If the crowner has come, I can imagine what this is about,” said Kit. “Go back into the house, Alice. And my thanks for the warning.”
He waited for her to dart inside before entering the house himself.
Squaring his shoulders, Kit pushed wide the door to his office. The coroner in his dark gown towered over the others—merchants and burgesses of the town—who’d packed themselves into the room, awaiting Kit’s return from his uncle’s house. A vulture among the ravens.
“Gentlemen,” said Kit, untying his cloak and tossing it aside. “Is the guildhall no longer a suitable location for meetings so that you must crowd into my meager office?”
He knew them all, a choice selection of the most prominent men of the village. The same men who’d chosen Kit to serve as constable. By the dark looks in their eyes, their opinions on that matter appeared to have changed.
“Master Harwoode, we have come to speak to you about the recent deaths,” said the coroner.
Master Harwoode, is it.
Kit closed the door behind him. The air in the room was already stale from the hot breath of a dozen men, and stank from the scents they used to perfume their clothing or to fend off fleas; shutting the door would only make the space more uncomfortable. Mayhap they’d then hasten to leave.
“Have you gentlemen information you’d like to share?” he asked. “I find myself to be all ears.”
“We informed you after Old Jellis perished that your queries and investigations were to be ceased. Yet you persisted. We are here to repeat that you are finished, Master Harwoode.” The coroner had clearly been chosen as spokesman by the rest, who nodded their agreement.
“Am I, Crowner?” asked Kit.
“Indeed, so,” he replied. “The old man accused is now dead and buried. The Merricks’ dairymaid died from misadventure, not any other cause. The witch has been driven off. The players, who have brought us all …” He paused to look at the assembled men, his glance gathering them. “… who have brought this town many troubles, will conclude their punishment for brawling on the morrow and thankfully depart. There is naught else to consider nor further actions to pursue. Surely you comprehend this.”
“A tidy summary, Crowner.”
“You are to question no one else, Master Harwoode, nor make any more demands upon anyone’s time.”
A comment that implied complaints had been made about those demands. “I have a difficulty with your request, however. I am not satisfied that my investigation is concluded. No more than the first time you informed me I was done.”
The coroner glared. “You are finished, sirrah. Should you continue, you will be removed from your position. A most shameful situation for a man of your standing to endure.”
Was the situation most shameful? Kit had endured worse.
“My cousin, the lord of the manor, proposed my name for this position,” said Kit. “You’d go against his wishes, Crowner?”
“I expect he would agree with the decision, should it be required,” he replied. “Good day to you.”
The coroner yanked open the door and swept from the room, his companions marching out with him.
Alice scuttled into the entry passage from the service rooms. “Are you to lose your position, sir?”
“Do not fret, Alice. It’s not as though I am dependent upon the miserable fees I receive as constable to pay your wage.”
“But, sir, your work contents you.”
He looked over to where she stood. “You think my position contents me, Alice?”
She flushed. “Aye, sir! Certes, it does! Else you’d not devote such time and care to it.”
He’d thought her a silly, anxious mouse; she might be made of more substance than that. “Alice, I may have been wrong about you.”
The front door clacked open, and Gibb stepped inside. Kit dismissed Alice.
“What are you doing here?” asked Kit. “I instructed you to keep watch on Mistress Ellyott.”
“I was uncareful and she spied me.”
“Well, go back anyway, Gibb,” said Kit, returning to his office. “And send someone to keep an eye on David Merrick. I don’t want him leaving the village.”
CHAPTER 22
“Where go you, Elizabeth?” asked Dorothie, frowning from the doorway of Bess’s bedchamber.
“To a supper at the constable’s home.”
“Which explains the gown you wear,” said her sister.
Joan bent over that gown, of a lustrous peacock color, examining it for any sign that all was not perfect. She’d found an embroidered ivory stomacher and matching forepart to complete Bess’s attire, items that had belonged to Robert’s late wife. Bess skimmed her fingers across the parti-colored stitching, recalling the gentle young woman who’d owned the stomacher and forepart before disease had taken her life. If Robert were here, would he be displeased to see them on Bess? Or happy that another had found use for them?
“I would look my best,” said Bess.
“For the constable,” said Dorothie. “Hmm.”
“Read not more into this invitation than is warranted, Dorothie,” she said. “The evening is a mere diversion from the troubles that have recently affected the village.”
“The constable has a fine income from his lands, I understand,” her sister said, apparently undeterred by Bess’s response. “He would make a good husband.”
Blushing, Bess shot a glance at Joan, who fought a grin as she adjusted Bess’s skirts where they draped over a bum roll. The pad of horsehair strapped to Bess’s waist would make her gown dip and sway with each movement. Joan had tried to convince Bess to wear a larger farthingale, but Bess had refused that extravagance. As it was, every time she turned, she expected to knock against the wall or bump a piece of furniture and send it crashing.
“I do not seek a husband to replace Martin,” said Bess.
“Well, you cannot live in this house forever, Elizabeth. Robert will return from London with a wife and that will be that.” Dorothie paused and considered Bess. “You could live with me in my great, empty house. Margery would welcome you.”
“And you would be jealous of your daughter’s welcome.”
The skin around Dorothie’s mouth tightened. “I would not be jealous.”
Joan settled Bess’s cloak about her shoulders and tidied a strand of hair that had escaped the pearl-encrusted net secured upon her head. “You look most fair, Mistress.”
“I trust I also look uncomfortable. The stomacher is very stiff, and I cannot draw in a full breath.”
“What need have you for breathing, Mistress?” Joan teased.
“You do look most fair, Elizabeth,” conceded Dorothie. A compliment from a woman who guarded praiseful remarks like precious sugared comfits to be handed out on the rarest of occasions.
“My thanks, sister.”
“Shall you return before curfew, Mistress?” asked Joan.
“I might not return until well after sunset, but do not fret for me, Joan. Or you either, Dorothie,” said Bess. “The constable’s cousin w
aits for me outside and will see me safely home afterward.”
“Nonetheless, watch for a clout-covered crone, Mistress. She means harm.”
Bess rubbed a hand down her servant’s arm. “Tut, Joan. I shall be well with Master Harwoode at my side.”
“If you say, Mistress,” she said. “But trust that I shall be waiting right here, impatient to learn of Constable Harwoode’s true intentions for wishing you to attend tonight.”
“As am I,” said Dorothie.
As am I, thought Bess.
* * *
In the market square, the day’s activities were reaching their close, shutters being set over shop windows and links and lanterns being lit at entry doors.
Gibb Harwoode strolled alongside Bess, humming as he walked. He had been abashed to admit that his cousin had set him to the task of watching her house, but her profuse thanks had stripped him of his embarrassment that she’d exposed him at his task.
“Master Harwoode, you have a bruise upon your face,” she said. “You should have had me tend to it. I make a simple of honey and black soap that works well.”
“’Tis nothing. A penalty for helping my cousin, Mistress,” he replied.
“Dangerous business, sir.”
“Indeed so.”
“Might I ask a question of you?”
He bowed over his outstretched arm. “Proceed.”
“Why have I been invited to this family supper?” she asked.
His mouth twitched with a grin. “To meet my sister.”
To meet his sister?
They drew near Kit Harwoode’s home, and Bess paused. The first-floor windows of his hall glimmered with candlelight, and the shapes of the other guests moved within. Bess shivered with anxiety and expectation.
Gibb Harwoode stopped when he realized she no longer walked at his side. “Mistress?”
“I hesitate so that I may collect myself, Master Harwoode.”
“My sister is not half as fearsome as Kit imagines her.”
He opened the door and ushered her inside. They were met by the constable’s house-servant, who curtsied repeatedly and whose hands trembled as she removed Bess’s cloak.
Gibb Harwoode bounded up the steps, squeezing past his cousin on the way down them.
“Welcome, Mistress.” Kit Harwoode gave a brief bow and gestured toward the door open at the head of the stairs. “Come up and join the others.”
His servant scurried off with Bess’s cloak. Bess hiked her skirts and climbed the steps. Voices—Gibb Harwoode’s and those of two women—echoed in the enclosed staircase.
She turned into the hall, awash in candlelight. The table in the center of the room had been lain with a linen cloth and set with pewter dishes, spoons, and good glass cups. Bottles of wine stood in readiness atop a court cupboard.
“Mistress Ellyott has arrived,” announced the constable.
The heads of the women turned as one. Bess did not recognize them, beautiful in silk gowns that glimmered in the candlelight. Three women and two males; Dorothie would tut over the irregularity of uneven numbers.
So why am I here?
“See? I have brought her safely,” said Master Harwoode.
“I’m proud of you, Gibb. Come meet the others, Mistress,” said his cousin.
One of the women stepped forward, her hands extended, a painted fan swinging from one slim wrist. “Welcome, Mistress Ellyott.”
“This is my cousin, Frances Harwoode Westcote,” said the constable. “Gibb’s sister.”
Bess could see the resemblance in her even features and fair eyes. She took the woman’s fingers, which were strong and assured. Mistress Westcote kissed Bess upon both cheeks, a pleasant sweetness rising from her silver pomander.
“And what Christopher does not say in his meager introduction of me is how much he adores me, Mistress Ellyott.” She smiled at him before steering forward the woman who waited patiently behind her. “This is my friend Beatrix Pollington. She visits us from Gloucester.”
Mistress Pollington did not move with Mistress Westcote’s confidence, and her gaze kept dancing over to Kit Harwoode’s face. A young woman as pretty as she was—her skin free of any blemish, her blonde hair the color of ripened wheat, her waist nipped tiny beneath a rose stomacher embroidered with more elaboration than Bess’s—should never be unconfident. Bess envied Mistress Pollington’s waist, though; hers would never again be so small after having borne children.
“Mistress Ellyott,” she said, her voice more forceful than Bess had anticipated. She also kissed Bess’s cheeks, but hastily, eager to retreat.
“Well, then. Ladies,” said the constable. He cleared his throat.
“Christopher, honestly,” chided Mistress Westcote. “I will tell Alice to serve supper, lest you stumble about in your awkwardness and discomfort us all!”
“If you would, Frances,” he said.
The constable caught Bess’s eye and walked over to join her. Mistress Pollington’s gaze traced his progress across the room.
“My thanks, Mistress, for attending,” he said quietly. “This may not be the most pleasant of evenings for you.”
“No, Constable?” she asked. “Why not?”
“My cousin and her plots.”
Plots? “Your cousin told me Mistress Westcote wished to meet me.”
“He did?”
“Was that not the reason for this supper?” asked Bess.
He cast a subtle glance at Beatrix Pollington.
Ah, then. Mistress Westcote plotted to draw an unmarried friend with wheat-pale hair into acquaintance with an equally unmarried man, thought Bess. And I am but a piece in this game of chess. But what sort of piece? One meant to block Mistress Pollington’s acquaintance or one meant to encourage it?
“Before our meal begins and I lose the opportunity, I should tell you that Mistress Ellyn has admitted she gave the dose of artemisia to Anna that sickened the girl, but maintains she did not meet Bartholomew Reade that night and kill him,” Bess said, mispleased by the unhappy jealousy that had stung at the thought of Mistress Pollington and Kit Harwoode together.
The change in the direction of the conversation visibly relaxed the taut edge of his jaw.
“And I should tell you, Mistress, that around the time of Reade’s death, Jennet observed David Merrick rushing back to the Merricks’ house looking distressed,” he said. “She didn’t see him wearing the bloodied robe we’ve located, however.”
“Most intriguing, Constable,” she said. “However, I cannot comprehend how he might have obtained the troupe’s robe to begin with.”
“He was at the Poynards’ that morning, arguing with Reade.”
“Yet to slip inside their house to retrieve it from the troupe’s stores?” she asked. “Could the reason for David Merrick’s distress instead be that he had stumbled upon Master Reade’s dead body?”
The constable narrowed his gaze. “My cousin calls these mysteries we face a Gordian knot, Mistress. You present a plausible explanation for Merrick’s actions, but I seek a proper sword to cut that knot fully in twain.”
Mistress Pollington strolled over to join them.
“Forgive the interruption, Constable Harwoode, Mistress Ellyott,” the young woman said with a smile that revealed a full set of even, white teeth. Mayhap she was confident after all. “But I would have you help me find my place at the table, sir, if I may trouble you with that task.”
“Later, Mistress Ellyott. We have much to speak of,” he said before leading Mistress Pollington away.
* * *
Kit’s restless mood deepened. He itched for the meal to conclude, though he couldn’t fault the food Alice and Frances’s kitchen maid had prepared. Not the salad of lettuce and leeks and mint dressed in sugared oil and vinegar, nor the herring in mustard or the ling pie. Not even the fricassee of eggs and sweet roots. It had all been delicious. Gibb had said a proper grace over the meal. The clove and cinnamon spiced claret had—so far—been dispensed without Alice
spilling any onto the tablecloth borrowed from his uncle’s supply. The conversation had been lighthearted, Mistress Pollington providing her impressions of Wiltshire and the sites she’d seen in Frances’s company. She’d proven to have a ready wit and a willingness to laugh.
As for Bess Ellyott, she’d been quieter than usual, saying little, complimenting the meal, though she ate sparingly. She had dressed with great care that evening, with pearls in her warm brown hair and silver threads sparkling on her bodice. Had the effort been for him? Aside from their brief conversation, though, she’d paid him scant attention, her evening spent focused on Beatrix Pollington.
Alice bustled in to remove the remnants of the first course and refresh the wine. Frances covered Kit’s hand, resting on the table, with hers.
“If you continue to glower so, Christopher, I shall be forced to apologize to Beatrix for your ill manners,” she whispered to him.
“She is pleasant, Frances.”
“I knew you would find her so.” Her eyes slanted to peer at the woman seated across the way. “But who is this Mistress Ellyott?”
“Gibb has not mentioned her to you?”
Frances’s brows made the slightest movement upward. “Should he have done?”
“Bess Ellyott is a local herbalist, a healer, and a friend,” he replied. “And I do not mean to glower, Frances. However, my mind is preoccupied by my work.” Despite what the coroner and burgesses and merchants wanted.
“Must you always think about your work? Gibb does not hesitate to enjoy himself,” she said. He’d engaged both Mistress Pollington and Mistress Ellyott in a conversation that made the women laugh. “Rest your mind for once, cousin.”
“My apologies.”
“I do not require apologies, Christopher,” she said. “I want your good humor restored to that of the man I used to know.”
“When did I ever have good humor, Frances?”
“I have not forgotten, even if you have,” she answered.
Frances’s servant and Alice, red-faced and sweating from her labors, returned with groaning platters. Frances had planned a second course of trout stewed in herbs, sturgeon cooked in a vinegar sauce, fried sole, an apple tart, and quince cakes. After this supper, Alice would either quit or request she never be asked to prepare so much food again.
A Fall of Shadows Page 24
