by Jason Vail
Whatever they might do in private, their public behavior had to be circumspect and proper, no matter that the servants all knew what was going on. So at table, they acted as though there was nothing particular between them.
After breakfast, Stephen took his leave with normal cool courtesy, and the only thing that gave the game away was the fact Margaret followed him to the front door. When no one was looking, she grasped him around the waist and they kissed as fiercely as they had during the night.
“Send word as soon as Olivia wakes up, promise?” Stephen asked her in the doorway.
“I will,” Margaret said. “Will you come back for dinner?”
“I can’t promise that.”
She looked disappointed. “Supper, then?”
“Supper,” he promised, smiling.
He stepped out into the street.
She shut the door.
Stephen hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He was certain that Olivia knew who had killed William Muryet. Whoever had done so was the person who had intended to buy the list from them. But that intention obviously had been false. The buyer decided to save his money by killing Muryet, taking the list, and then disappearing. Someone would only decide on such a ruthless course if he felt he had a safe place to run. Only a man from Montfort’s party could feel so secure, and Stephen only knew one person cruel enough for such a course attached to Montfort: Nigel FitzSimmons.
But he had to be sure.
He had jumped to conclusions before and had been wrong.
He didn’t want to be wrong about this.
But unless and until Olivia was ready to speak, there was nothing to go on.
He was too restless to return to the Broken Shield to wait for her to wake up. So he turned north and went through Linney Gate, which stood open now it was daytime.
The path wound down the hill between grassy fields, which were still green despite the fact that autumn was well along. It was late in the morning, the sun was high, the sky was clear, and it was unusually warm, almost springlike — a joyous day. Too joyous to be about the somber business of murder.
He limped down the path, with his bad foot aching already. He passed a woman struggling upward under the burden of a huge bag of cabbages, which she must be intending to sell. The path threaded between two yards, bounded on each side by wattle fences, of houses that fronted on Corve Street. A pair of women were washing laundry in a big tub in one of the yards. It had always struck Stephen as funny how wet clothes would trap bubbles of air when you pushed them into the water, and this laundry was no exception. The laundresses often played at smothering the bubbles by smacking or punching them while they sang. It was so warm that one of these laundresses climbed in the tub. They saw him watching. The girl in the tub, a pretty thing who enjoyed the attention, smiled and playfully raised her skirt so he could admire the lush columns of her thighs. Stephen saluted her and leaned against the fence to watch for a few moments. It reminded him of girls trampling wine grapes, a regular sight in Spain. He was glad to see people going about their business and being happy, untouched by the grim events of the last few days.
He reached Corve Street and turned north. There were several carts in the street, one bulging with hay that stood so high he was sure it wouldn’t fit through the town gate where it was headed, another carrying barrels, a third hauling sheep tethered to the sides and looking none too happy about the ride. Stephen heard a horse trotting fast behind him, turned to look, and had to dodge out of the way as a post rider from the castle surged by, leather message tubes like those he had seen in Baynard’s study bouncing from straps on his belt.
Before long, the Webbere house came into view around the bend in Corve Street. Stephen paused at the mouth of the alley and regarded the spot where Muryet had died.
Then he knocked on the front door.
A boy answered the door. Stephen recognized him as Webbere’s young son. He called out to someone behind him, “Ma! That coroner man’s back!”
“Mind your manners and ask him in,” Mistress Webbere’s voice called from within the house.
The boy held the door open and Stephen stepped into the large room that passed for the hall in such a modest house. And modest it was, although it was better appointed than the houses of many people of this class. Although the floor was hard-packed dirt, it was covered with fresh straw. There were four chairs arranged around a large oak table, two sideboards for storing linens and dinnerware, and a large fireplace where a low fire was burning and putting out quite a bit of heat. Mistress Webbere was seated on one of two benches before the fireplace mending one of the boy’s socks.
“Go and play, Ivo,” she said to the boy. Apparently she had him doing some chore or other because his face brightened at this unexpected release. He wasted no time in dashing out the front door.
“Bit warm for such a fire,” Stephen said conversationally. He sank onto the bench opposite Mistress Webbere.
“Once autumn’s here, I can’t seem to get warm,” Mistress Webbere said. “But you didn’t come to talk about the weather.”
“No. I think it’s time you told me who really has been renting your room upstairs.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t pretend ignorance with me. I know you haven’t been renting it to a countrywoman.”
“You’re misinformed, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve been renting it to Olivia Baynard.”
The only sign that he may have scored a hit was a slight downturn of Webbere’s mouth at the corners. But she offered no explanation or answer.
Stephen said: “Howard Makepeese is dead — you must have heard the news. And Olivia Baynard may well follow soon if I do not find out the truth.”
Several heartbeats passed. Then Webbere said, “I am sworn not to tell.”
“If necessary and possible, I will keep your secrets.”
She sighed. “But you cannot promise.”
“No, I can’t. A murder must be accounted for and something valuable that has been lost must be found. Your secrets may have to be sacrificed.”
“They aren’t my secrets. I was just pledged to keep them.”
“And paid to do so, I imagine.”
The corners of her mouth drooped again, but this time her eyes narrowed. Stephen felt a swell of triumph. He had scored a hit. She said, “It’s a sad story, a woman’s story. You probably won’t understand or sympathize, being just a man.”
“I will try not to condemn or judge,” Stephen said.
“All right, then. As you probably know, Mistress Baynard married her husband because she was desperate. You cannot imagine the fear she felt — her brother hanged and quartered as an embezzler of royal funds entrusted to him, his lands and hers confiscated and sold at auction. She had nowhere to go and no man of the gentry would have her. She faced destitution on top of humiliation. Then Baynard rescued her — a man on the brink of old age who lacked an heir and she a fertile young woman not yet twenty. He didn’t care about her past, only about what she might bring to his future.
“But he let her know from the beginning that she was meant to be nothing more than a brood mare, a wife in name and law, but not in reality. Can you conceive of how bitter such a thing is? To be regarded as only property, as the vessel for another man’s lust, not of his affection or respect?
“She quickly grew to understand her mistake, but there wasn’t anything she could do. Frankly, I doubt she would have left Baynard even if she could have done. Some women will put up with the worst humiliation for position and wealth, and wealth she had if not the position she craved.”
“But she still wanted affection,” Stephen said.
“Yes. Is that so strange? To want love?”
“No. But to turn to Makepeese . . .”
“Ah, yes. Another mistake. He was a smooth one, and not lacking in looks and charm. She made the mistake of lying with him early in the marriage.”
“But they kept it secret. Oliv
ia hired your room, and crept out in the night through Linney Gate for her rendezvous.”
Webbere affirmed his guess with a nod and a slight smile. “It only lasted two weeks before she saw through him. But it was too late after their first night together. She had to pay for his silence after she broke it off — which he took rather well, by the way. It did not cost her a lot, however. Howard was content with my room.”
“So he used it to meet other women?”
“He had gained a taste for gentry women now that he had caught one, even for a short time. My room was a place he could carry on in secret.”
“And her husband found out.”
“No, I don’t think he ever did. She was quite circumspect. She only came after dark. Even her own servants were unaware, Howard said. He was quite proud of that. He feared revelation as much as she, you know. Had Baynard found out, he’d have turned Clement on him.” She shuddered. “A vicious man, Clement. He enjoys causing pain.”
“What did Howard tell you about the list?”
Webbere shook her head sadly. “He never spoke about it. You can find many things to criticize about him, but he did keep secrets.”
“Was Howard here the night Muryet died?”
“I believe he was, yes.”
“In the room.”
“I would imagine so. I heard someone moving about up there. I assume it was him.”
Stephen stood up. “I’d like to see the room.”
“Very well.”
Webbere led him outside and round to the alley, where they mounted the stairs, moving with an odd slowness, as if they were in a funeral procession. The loose board on the stair had been replaced, and Stephen was a bit surprised to see that the latch on the door was new as well. The iron was fresh and black without a spot of rust, and the catch on the inside, although old, had been nailed to a fresh, yellow block of wood that had been inserted specially for it in an otherwise old and gray door frame. Oddly, the latch had provision for locking with an iron pin, which hung from a chain above the latch itself. The pin itself was twisted, obviously damaged when someone had forced the door, breaking the latch.
The room itself was spare, but with features that suggested an attempt to alleviate some of its poverty. There was a circular wool rug of red and blue on the floor, something one hardly ever saw in houses, a rocking chair, and a feather mattress on the bed with real feather pillows as well. He was willing to bet that Webbere didn’t sleep on so fine a mattress. The fireplace across the room was cold and the ashes had been swept out, leaving only a blackened spot to show that it had been used at all. There was a window by the fireplace. Stephen crossed over and threw open the shutters so there was some light to see. The window overlooked part of the roof of the house. He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. There was a long brown hair snagged on a splinter of the window frame. He ran his hands along the hair: it was as long as his arm, too long to have come from a man. He wound the hair into a band around his finger and put the band in his purse.
While Webbere stood by the door, watching with folded hands, Stephen went over the room with the same care he had used on Muryet’s chamber at Baynard House: tapping panels in the walls, dismantling the bed, probing the mattress and the pillows. He even fingered the bricks of the fireplace for loose ones in case here was a secret compartment behind one of them, but they were solid in their mortar. Last, he climbed onto the rafters, which were wide substantial beams, and checked along them and in every cranny.
But it was all for nothing.
If Olivia or Howard had hidden the list here, he could not find it.
“Is Olivia still paying rent on this place?” he asked Webbere.
“She is paid up for the rest of this month,” Webbere said primly, clearly a businesswoman who honored her commitments to the end.
Stephen went outside and began to descend the stairs.
A stocky figure turned into the alley from the street, followed by six muscular friends. They were all wearing swords.
It was Clement.
He grinned wolfishly.
He said, “Find anything? I rather thought not. Oh, and you’re under arrest, by the way.”
Chapter 23
“And what have I done to merit arrest?” Stephen asked coldly. He did not come down any farther but stayed where he was on the stairs. He thought quickly about his options. Webbere was a momentary obstacle behind him. He could be around her in no time. The door was latched but the pin securing the latch was not in place. The door would not slow him appreciably. And he had left the window open. He could be through it and onto the roof below it as fast as an eel evades the net — as fast as, he thought, Howard and Olivia had fled the night Muryet had died.
Clement seemed to read his mind. He spoke quickly to the men behind him. Two ran out of the alley. Clement said, “Miles and Herbert will be waiting for you if you’re thinking about slipping out the window.”
Clement had him checked. Stephen was confident that he could handle two men, but not if they were armed with swords when he was not. Any attempt to escape through the window and over the house and those two would cut him to ribbons. He decided to brazen things out as far as he could. “I said, what have I done to merit an arrest?”
“Oh, you know very well. A small matter of arson and assault.”
Stephen was stunned at the accusation. He had been certain that Will Thumper would be too concerned about inquiries into the contents of his storeroom to level such a charge. But then he realized that in all likelihood the storeroom was empty now, a barren testament to Thumper’s poverty. Still, he said, “Who brings this charge?”
“Oh, come now, Stephen, don’t be coy. It doesn’t become you.”
“You have no business condescending to me!”
Clement bowed, his mocking grin widening. “When his honor is done with you, you’ll have no position, and I can condescend to you all I like — before you hang.”
A crowd had begun to gather around the head of the alley as people drew together to see what was going on. Clement was not disturbed by the presence of the crowd. He’d do his awful work out of their sight. But he was inspired to show off.
Clement put his hands on his hips and swaggered at the foot of the stairs. He pointed his finger at Stephen. “Come on down, you blackguard. You can’t escape the king’s justice.”
“The king’s or yours, Clement? I’ll trust myself to the king’s justice but yours I have doubts about.”
“Don’t make me come get you!” Clement thundered. “You’ll rue that decision!”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re the sort of man who likes to take on someone he can’t bully. Come as you like.”
Across the street Margaret, Walter, and James appeared on horses. They slid off and began to push through the crowd.
If they had come to help, they were not in time. Clement was not inclined to trade words after all. He drew his sword and mounted the stairs. Mistress Webbere gasped and clambered up to the top in a flurry of skirts and naked ankles.
Stephen did not follow her. He drew his dagger and waited to see what Clement would do.
“Going to defend yourself with that little needle, are you,” Clement said with relish.
Stephen held his arms wide in answer.
Clement lunged with the sword, driving the point upward toward Stephen’s stomach.
Stephen pivoted to his left with the calm assurance of one on the dance floor, avoiding the deadly point as though it was no more dangerous than a finger, and helping the flashing blade aside with his dagger.
Clement’s momentum carried him forward and he stumbled on the stairs at Stephen’s feet.
Stephen kicked him hard in the face. Pain lanced through his bad foot at the impact.
Clement toppled over backward and tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. He lay in almost exactly the same spot where Muryet’s body had been found. The crowd, which had been silent, burst out with a cheer. Two of Clement’s men helped him
to his feet. Clement wiped blood from his mouth and panted, his face writhing with anger and humiliation.
Stephen leaned over and retrieved Clement’s sword, which had fallen upon a step. Now that he had a sword, he was not as helpless as before. But his mind was not on fighting. It was far away. Something Clement had said was rattling in his mind like the shard of a pitcher that had been broken and needed to be fitted into its proper place so the pitcher could be mended. Then it clicked.
Stephen descended the steps. Clement’s men drew their swords. The crowd rustled backward to give them room to fight. Stephen stopped on the last step just as Margaret burst through the cordon of spectators. He said, “You killed Muryet, Clement. Right there, where you’re standing now. You knew he had Baynard’s list. How did you find out? Did Lucy tell you?”
“He knew because when he was in gaol he told Muryet to make sure it was still there,” Margaret said. “But instead of keeping it safe for Clement, Muryet took the list to his mistress.”
Stephen nodded. “Olivia is awake, then.”
“And she has told everything,” Margaret said with bitter triumph.
Stephen stepped off the stair, the sword’s point toward the ground, but only a fool would think it out of position, for this was the fool’s guard, deceptive and ready for any threat. He said, “Ah, I see. You told him what it was worth. You told him it was more than parchment and scribbles. It was a great fortune. You thought he would do as you asked. He always had. But he betrayed you — he betrayed you in your time of greatest need.”
The tight line of Clement’ mouth told Stephen he had struck the truth.
Stephen went on, “Perhaps you thought you might profit from the list rather than turning it over to your master’s replacement. But your arrest for murder spoiled any such plan. Because then you needed it to bargain for your freedom by promising Valence the list. Only you found it gone. Oh, you were in trouble then.”
