City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “Poor mite,” said Mistress Grubb. “You sit there, Madam, and rest yourself.” Her voice was softer than it had been, and Catherine sank gratefully onto a stool. Eleanor must have spoken to her. She gave the baby a breast and the constable’s wife cast a smile over her shoulder. “There’s a good girl.” Catherine couldn’t determine which one of them she meant.

  Benjamin was standing at the window when the women joined them in the front room. Peter Grubb waited while his wife laid bread and cheese on the table. “Got wine for the lady?” he asked, and she clucked at him.

  “Of course, Husband,” said Mistress Grubb. “I’m not a fool.” She fetched both ale and wine. Catherine let the constable pour her a goblet and drank deeply.

  “Where does William stay for the night?” Catherine asked. The house seemed too small to hold many beds.

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen ‘im. You may stay here. The hour is too late for a woman to ride and the inn is dirty.”

  Benjamin was already standing, wiping his mouth. “You stay here. Upstairs. I will return on the morrow.”

  “Where is Margaret?” asked Catherine.

  “Already taken to her bed. In the back. You wanting to share with her?”

  “I wouldn’t wake her if you have another bed,” said Catherine.

  Benjamin was pulling on his cloak and was through the door before Peter Grubb could get out from behind the table.

  Catherine retired early and lay on the thin mattress, watching a moth beat itself against a crack in the door, trying to get at the candles downstairs. Veronica keened in her sleep, and Catherine gathered her closer. No sound from the village beyond the half-closed shutters. No light from the knife-edge of moon that tilted its blade at her. The Grubbs were talking somewhere below, but Catherine couldn’t make out the words, and she finally threw off the cover and made her way to the window.

  The night was clear, but she could see no movement in the high road, and if there was brawling at the inn, she surely could have heard it. A door opened below, and Catherine stepped away from the sill, but it was only Grubb, tromping to the bushes to take a leisurely piss. He sighed, and Catherine crawled back into bed. She wished she had asked Eleanor to stay with her.

  She must have slept, because she opened her eyes to a pale early sun. The door opened, and Catherine sat up, scrubbing her face. Mistress Grubb poked her head inside. “There’s men, here, Madam. Feed the baby, then you let me take her.”

  Catherine could hear Peter Grubb talking to another man, but Mistress Grubb kept her attention on Catherine, helping her dress before she disappeared down the back steps to the kitchen with Veronica. Catherine descended alone.

  Peter Grubb was in conversation with Kit Sillon, but before Catherine could speak, John Bridle came scurrying in, throwing off a cloak. “Daughter,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Father, I might ask the same of you.”

  “You think the priest doesn’t know when the Justice is called to his daughter’s village?”

  Kit Sillon acted as though he’d been interrupted at his mug of ale. “Where’s that Overton woman?”

  “Here,” ventured Catherine, raising her hand.

  “Not you. The other one.”

  “Not awake yet,” said Grubb.

  “And this horse man?”

  “At his mother’s.”

  “Get them down here, will you? Or do we have to go find them? And have you got a clerk who can write more than his name?”

  “They’s more room in a public place,” said Grubb. He went to the front door and stared out at the high road. “The innkeeper acts as my clerk. He can write a fair enough hand.”

  “Let’s go, then,” said John Bridle. He already had Catherine by the arm. He pulled her outside, and Grubb followed. They were at the gate before Sillon emerged, fumbling with his cloak and cursing under his breath.

  The road to the inn seemed endless, but in the large front room, Benjamin Davies sat at a worn table with Geoffrey White. He rose when he saw Catherine.

  “That’s not William Overton,” said Sillon.

  “Benjamin Davies.” Benjamin bowed with a slight flourish. Geoffrey didn’t look up from his cup.

  “What good are you? And where’s William Overton?” asked Kit Sillon.

  The innkeeper stuck his head into the room, and ducked out again.

  “He’s out,” said Benjamin. “This is his master of horse. Geoffrey White.”

  “All right then,” the Justice said. “Geoffrey White. Where’s that damned clerk?”

  The innkeeper scuttled back in, a pot of ink and a quill in his hands. He’d taken off the apron, and his breeches flapped, unbuttoned, at the front. “Here, Your Honor Sir. Right here.”

  Sillon cast a long look up and down the man. “Does anyone in this place own a clean sheet of paper?”

  “Yes, yes, Sir, Your Honor, I keep some paper right here.” The ink sloshed as the innkeeper slid it onto the table and ran to a cupboard for paper. Returning, he discovered the state of his breeches, and stood, quill in one hand and paper in the other, unable to decide how to proceed. Finally, he walked to the table as though the garment was meant to hang loose and flung himself onto a stool.

  Kit Sillon sighed and turned his attention to Geoffrey White. “You. You have admitted to the murders committed at Overton Hall these last months. Is that the case?”

  Geoffrey looked around. “I said was ordered to it. I didn’t care about those women one way or ‘tother. They were nothing to me. But I needed my position. That’s all.”

  How dare you?” cried Catherine. “What have you said about your master? Hasn’t he always treated you fairly? And him sick in his bed these weeks?”

  “I knew William Overton,” added Benjamin. “And you will say this before my face?”

  “Yours or any other man’s face,” said Geoffrey, impassive.

  The innkeeper trimmed his pen, and as he dipped the point into the ink, Margaret swished in from behind him, twitching her skirt around her ankles.

  “Or woman’s,” Geoffrey said.

  Kit Sillon coughed. “You say that this man, William Overton, your master and a man with no stain upon his reputation, ordered you to murder four women of his house with your bare hands and paid you to perform it.”

  “Just say the simple truth, man,” said Peter Grubb. “Say it like you said it before.”

  Geoffrey gulped and now he wiped his brow. “The lady’s right. Master Overton is a good master. A fair man. But he said the women from the convents were talked of. He said once that he wished his wife would leave that life behind and be a lady like other ladies. He said he had a hard enough time being a gentleman. Filling his dead brother’s boots, like.”

  Peter Grubb scowled. “This doesn’t sound quite the same as what you told me yesterday.”

  “No, I say the same,” insisted Geoffrey. “I say the man was a fair master. Then the package came. The first one was left in my room. A message and a coin.”

  The constable raised his hand and came forward a step. “Wait right there. This isn’t at all what you said before. You said the woman brought the package.”

  “What woman?” asked Catherine, but the horse master rushed on.

  “Yes,” White said. “The second time. The master had fell ill in his bed. She put it in my hand when she took her mare out. Said I would know where it come from.”

  “Who?” Catherine asked again.

  “Be calm, Madam,” said the Justice. “Let your man finish his story.”

  Catherine was shaking, and she plopped onto a stool, gripping her skirt to hold her knees still.

  “Now, sir. Go on. What did these messages say?”

  “They were simple. ‘Get rid of the women. Make sure no one finds them.’”

  “Were the women named?”

  “Yes. Both times.”

  “You knew the script?”

  Geoffrey scratched his chin at this. “Looked like a gentleman’s writing to m
e. Wouldn’t swear to it.”

  “William would write no such message,” said Catherine. “Good God above, will my husband be hanged on the word of a man who cannot recognize his hand? Geoffrey, you never heard him say that he wanted you to do a murder. You didn’t hear that from his mouth. Say you did not.”

  Geoffrey jutted his chin. “Not in so many words. He said enough about them women, though. About them bringing the king’s soldiers down on us if we wasn’t careful. About his wife being more nun than lady. He said it.” Geoffrey suddenly directed his words to Margaret. “You know. You know he did. You told me he did.”

  The front door opened and Joseph Adwolfe stood there, with Eleanor behind him.

  “You’ll second me, won’t you, Joseph?” asked Geoffrey. “You saw the packages. You heard the man speak.”

  Joseph scanned the room. “I would rather speak with the master present. I might have heard voices in the stable, but I would like to say so to the man’s face.”

  Geoffrey’s color was high, and his hand went to his side where his dagger would have been, but he had no sidearm and he clenched his fists.

  “A man says idle things,” said Joseph. “No one made you kill anyone. No man, anyway. Where is Master William?”

  “And Lady Margaret,” interrupted Kit Sillon. “We need to hear from you now. What say you?”

  Catherine’s hand tingled, and she drove it into her pocket. Benjamin placed his fingers on her arm.

  Margaret said, “Don’t speak to me of secret messages and packages. What do I know of packages?” She turned to Catherine. “William was almost upon his knees begging you to leave off your Papist ways, but you would have your nunnery right under our very noses. I have worked myself to a nub trying to be your loving kinswoman. But having those women in the house. Calling each other ‘Sister’ and studying and translating and setting yourselves up as physicians and teachers rather than getting them husbands as our king requires.” She lifted her chin. “Some might call it treason.”

  Catherine sprang to her feet. “I have the king’s own warrant for my marriage.”

  Margaret’s face hardened. “My brother only married you to give you a father for your bastard. You lay with a strange man and passed your sin off onto the Overton house. You are no Overton. You are a whore and the bastard child of a whore. And your son is a bastard too. He is not an Overton and William knows it.”

  The room went as silent as a sky before storm. A shrill wind cut through it, and Catherine covered her ears. It whistled, then it screamed, and then she realized that it was her own voice. She whipped around and pointed at Geoffrey. “My son! My little boy! You, you are the one who put him in those stirrups! Did she tell you to murder my child? My little Robert?”

  Peter Grubb blinked. Kit Sillon wrote something down, then he beckoned to the constable, whispered something in his ear, and sent him out.

  The panic came up in Catherine’s throat like a sickness and she grabbed at her pocket. She flung the pouch into the open space. “This package you say you got from my husband. Did it look anything like that?”

  63

  The linen pouch of poison landed on the table in front of Peter Grubb. Kit Sillon put out his hand and the constable laid it into his palm. The Justice turned the package over. Squeezed it. “This has been in the water, Lady Overton?”

  “No,” said Catherine.

  “How came it to be dampened? And what is its significance?”

  “Smell of it,” said Catherine, and she waited while the Justice put it to his nose. His face pruned for a moment and he held the thing at arm’s length. “You will perceive,” Catherine continued, “that the pouch contains elements that are repellent to the nose. If you will open it carefully, you will find a small pap of noisome plants. The child fell ill and I could discover no cause. After the constable seized upon my husband, I found this under his bed. The fabric has been sweetened, but the contents are noxious.”

  The Justice hefted the pouch gently, as though it were a plaything. “But the daughter has not been part of the question here, has she?”

  “No. But she is an heir. Undeniably.”

  “And you believe your husband wanted to kill his heir?” Sillon set the bag on the table and spun it with one finger. “And what of your son? You say that the boy is a bastard?”

  “She said no such thing,” said Benjamin, “but Margaret certainly said it.”

  “The packages for me looked nothing like that,” Geoff said quietly.

  “Why poison the girl?” Sillon set down the pouch and wiped his fingers on his napkin.

  Benjamin said, “Where is William? Bring him and all will come clear. Joseph, you run down the road and look for your master.”

  Joseph looked to the constable, and Peter Grubb looked to the Justice. “Go, boy,” said Kit Sillon with a wave of one hand. “Find him.”

  Joseph scooted out the door, and Peter Grubb lifted the pouch with two fingers. “Perhaps the mother wanted to be free of the child. A child can be a trial to a woman’s patience.” He didn’t look at Catherine.

  “Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” said Eleanor, rising to her feet. “But that is the worst of slander. My mistress loves her daughter more tenderly than ever mother loved child. She nurses the baby at her own breast. She would no more give her poison than she would take it herself. I saw. I saw the baby fall ill. I saw my mistress fall ill. I’m wondering what is making the master stay down. I’m wondering if his sickness is not in his conscience.”

  “You hold your tongue around your betters,” said Grubb. “You will not give evidence. You are a servant.”

  Eleanor set her teeth upon her lower lip and sat.

  Kit Sillon opened the pouch with a slice of his hand knife. He stirred the contents with one finger. “She seems to have given her evidence already, Grubb, and you seem to think questioning of servants to be allowable when it goes toward your interests.” He lifted one hand toward Geoffrey White without looking up. “I don’t see how Lady Catherine Overton can be both keeper of the royal daughters at Hatfield and killer of her women here. Which is it?”

  “She has books of venoms,” said Grubb.

  “Mm,” said Sillon. “Perhaps she has.”

  John Bridle cleared his throat. “She inherited them from her mother. The convent had need for poisons.” Everyone was looking at him. “For mice and such.”

  “Mm,” said Sillon again. “Rodents. I see. And how did you know of these volumes, Grubb?”

  The constable’s thick nostrils flared a little and he stammered out “Lady Overton told me. The other Lady Overton. Margaret.”

  Kit Sillon looked up. “Margaret Overton, you can read. Is that correct?”

  Margaret almost snorted. “Of course I can read. We are not savages here.”

  “It’s the other lady who keeps the books,” said Peter Grubb. “She has pages and pages of receipts for poison.”

  “Is this true?” Kit Sillon had a dab of dried leaves on the tip of his forefinger, and he held it to the light. His eyes met Catherine’s. “Well?”

  “I have books. They are in my still room. They are not kept under lock and key. They were my mother’s before they were mine, as my father has just said. They offer receipts, but they also describe signs and reliefs. I know how to use them. Whoever made that package did not. The substance made the child ill. It did not kill her, thank God. Only someone who was unused to working with noxious elements would be so careless. Or perhaps the stronger elements had been used elsewhere already. Eleanor is correct to say that my husband’s symptoms have been mysterious. I was the last to fall ill, but I was only sick in the stomach for some few hours.”

  “That is a slander,” said Margaret. “How dare you accuse your husband of so base an act as killing?”

  “I accused no one of killing. I spoke of incompetence,” said Catherine.

  “All right, ladies,” said Sillon. His gaze shifted to Grubb. “And how do you know so much of what is in these books?�
��

  The man shook his head wildly. “I don’t know how I know. Where is that William Overton?”

  “That is a piece of information you should already have.” Kit Sillon sighed and closed up the little package. No one spoke and he said, “Geoffrey White, have you any evidence aside from the word of a messenger woman that William Overton ordered you to commit these murders?”

  Geoffrey said, “She gave me her word.”

  “And you in fact did the deed?”

  “Under orders, as I have said. And it has cost me my position and my home. My own wife and mother have turned their faces from me.”

  “Orders by messenger.” Sillon looked up. “ And who was she? Is she still alive?”

  Geoffrey White snorted. “Alive and standing before you, sir. She’s right there.” He pointed at Margaret Overton.

  “I?” said Margaret. “If I delivered any messages to you, White, I assure you I did not break my brother’s seal and read them.”

  Kit Sillon ordered one of the watchmen with a crook of his arm, who took hold of the master of horse. “Geoffrey White, it seems you are guilty of four murders. Constable Grubb, go find William Overton, will you?”

  The front door swung open and everyone looked toward the light, but it wasn’t William. Instead, Joseph stood before them. “Come, sirs, if you please. Pray, come. There’s killing going on outdoors.” Joseph put out his hand as Catherine ran to the door. “Let the men go without you. I beg you, Madam.”

  Benjamin and Geoffrey White were already running down the high road, and Peter Grubb waddled off behind them. Kit Sillon walked as far as the gate and watched, one hand clapped against his forehead. John Bridle waited beside him.

  “Let me go,” Catherine said.

  Eleanor was at her other side. “Joseph says no. Stay here.”

  “Joseph doesn’t command me.” Catherine yanked herself loose and ran out, past the Justice and her father. She could see them already. Two men facing off at the end of the road. She knew William’s stance even at this distance.