“The priory ruins are where the husbandman who first mentioned him to me claims the fellow is hiding.”
“Do you want me to search them?”
“Aye. In the morning,” said Kit. “If your father, my good uncle, frees you from scratching in your account books.”
Gibb scowled, then suddenly leaned across the table. “You said Mistress Crofton thought her husband was murdered. Think you this vagrant could be responsible?”
“The coroner has ruled felo-de-se,” Kit felt required to say. “Wat did mention, though, that Crofton had many enemies.”
“An enemy that might want the man’s hat?” asked Gibb. “It was not near his body, which I thought odd. I looked around for it, after you’d gone to visit Wat, but did not find it.”
Damn … how did I not notice that Crofton’s hat was missing? Mayhap he had been distracted by the mysterious Mistress Ellyott’s fine brown eyes. “But no coins were gone from his purse. Does one murder a man for his hat but leave his purse dangling from his belt, then go to the extravagance of stringing him from a tree? I think not, Gibb.”
His cousin sat back, disappointed.
“I will set the watch upon the town,” said Kit. “To either catch the vagrant or prevent him from causing mischief. We will find him.”
“The wheelwright wanted to know if I thought the vagrant was one of those Jesuits sneaking into the country from France.”
Kit’s finger, which had been tapping against his tankard, stilled. He had only been jesting when he had mentioned the possibility to the husbandman who’d had his pig stolen. ’Twere dangerous times indeed if assassins had come to this quiet part of Wiltshire.
“I must speak to the Langhams about this vagrant.” The father of the family had perished in Fleet Prison for supporting Jesuits; they might continue his treason.
“Think you they would be so unwise again, Kit?” asked Gibb. “After losing Master Langham?”
“The Fleet has not taught the families of other traitors wisdom,” said Kit. “Although if this vagrant is a Jesuit, and has taken to hiding among the priory ruins, the Langhams have at least learned the danger of concealing such a fellow within their house.”
“They will not answer you true about him and chance a second offense. The entire household would be sent to the Tower.” Gibb leaned across the table again. “I know Bennett Langham. He is a good man. He is no traitor.”
“If they intend to harm the queen, then we must do our duty,” said Kit. “No matter our personal feelings about the Langhams.”
* * *
“I am not pleased to leave you and Dorothie at such a time,” said Robert the next morning. “Or Margery either.”
They stood in the courtyard under a cloud-filled sky. Several of their neighbors had begged him to take gifts to family and friends in London. Bess watched as he loaded items they had pressed upon him—a small wheel of cheese, a length of broadcloth—into the leather sumpter slung over his horse. If he had not refused, he would have been laden with chickens and fresh eggs as well. Goods would return with her brother, likely more than he now departed with. He also carried a letter from Joan to a friend. Unbeknownst to Robert, this friend tracked Laurence’s movements in London. She took great risks to do so.
“We shall be well,” said Bess. She would not see him again before a week was out. If he rode hard and the weather held, he might make it to the city in two days. “Joan has already been to Dorothie’s house this morning to inquire after her, at my request, and Joan reports that she appeared calm.”
“There is disbelief at first, then she will come to realize he is truly gone, and … well, I need not tell you how these matters proceed.”
No. He did not.
Robert finished loading the sumpter and tied it closed. “The churchwarden’s men come to make their inventory today. Their presence will distract her. I am surprised, though, she does not wish Margery to be with her as a comfort.”
“She thinks it best Margery stay here, where there is some measure of quiet and no rooms filled with strange men searching every chest and counting every last item,” answered Bess. “Dorothie mistrusts the men the churchwarden has sent to her house. She thinks they mean to pocket some of her goods.”
“Ah, Dorothie, ever suspicious. I am ready, Humphrey,” he said to his manservant, who had been helping him pack. The fellow, thickset and strong, held the horse steady as Robert hoisted himself onto the saddle.
“Safe travels, Master Marshall,” said Humphrey.
“Mistress Ellyott is your mistress in my absence. See that you attend to her.”
Humphrey cast a baleful glance at her from beneath the brim of his woolen cap, tugged low to hide the smallpox scars upon his forehead. Reluctantly, he bowed in compliance before slouching off.
“I know not why he mislikes me so,” she murmured to Robert.
“He mislikes everyone,” he said.
“Then why keep him on?”
His expression turned grim. “He tended to my wife and her maidservant when they lay dying, when I was too ill and no one else would help. I value such loyalty.”
“Of course.”
“Take good care. I have heard that the constable has had a watch set. Apparently, a stranger has been seen in the area. And Bess, I see the look in your eyes. This fellow’s presence has naught to do with Fulke’s death. Do not torment yourself or your sister with any such ideas.”
“Yes, Robert.”
He glanced up at the house. “Do give my love to Margery.”
Their niece was not fond of farewells; Bess suspected Margery peered at them now from behind a curtain.
“Be assured I will.”
“Here. Kiss me goodbye.” He leaned down from the saddle, and she raised up on her toes to peck him upon his cheek.
“Safe travels,” she said. “And if you make time to enjoy a play, do not tell me when you return, for I shall be most jealous. Before I left the city, I heard of a new playwright, a fellow named Shakespeare. I had so wanted to see one of his plays.”
“Plague continues apace in London, Bess. The theaters have been closed most of the year, from what I understand. The people should not gather in such tight quarters.”
Bess grabbed his hand. “I’d not have you stricken with plague.” She could not lose him, her dear brother, as well.
“I have accommodations at the edge of town, away from the pestilential air. Besides, I am not in London long enough for entertainments or for mingling.”
“Yet you mingle with Mistress Tanner to woo her, do you not?”
“That is not the mingling I meant,” he said. “You shall like her, I promise.”
“What shall you say to her of Fulke’s death?” she asked.
“Naught for now.” Robert kissed her fingers, and she released her grip. “Keep away from trouble while I am gone.”
“When do I ever cause trouble, Robin?”
“When you become overcurious, Bess. Which occurs too frequently for my comfort.”
He tipped his hat and spurred his horse through the gate adjacent to the house, which led from the courtyard onto the road. Humphrey swung the broad door closed behind him. The resounding clang of the iron latch as it dropped into place was mournful, final.
* * *
“When will Uncle Marshall return?” asked Margery.
“No sooner than a week,” said Bess. “You know how long his visits to London take.”
Margery trailed after Bess as she moved through her still room, collecting what she needed for her visit to the Anwickes’ daughter—fresh linen bandaging, more of the plaster for her burn, the salve of powdered stavesacre seeds and vinegar for the girl’s lice. Her niece’s stony silence had lifted, but her spirits had not risen with them. Perhaps she had cared more for Fulke than Bess had suspected.
“Will Mother and I come here to live when he returns?” asked Margery. “Even if he brings a wife?”
“He would like you to. Even if he brings a wife. I c
annot say, though, what your mother wishes to do.” Bess reached for her niece’s hand. The bones of Margery’s fingers were delicate and her skin soft, and her hand fit easily within Bess’s too large one. “I am sorry for your loss, Margery. Fulke—”
“My thanks, Aunt Bess,” she said, her gaze steady but her hand trembling.
“Know that you may stay here with us as long as you desire. You can help me in the garden and the still room, if that would please you.”
“I would welcome that,” she replied. “There will come a time when my mother shall realize she wants me with her though, think you not?”
The pain in her words struck Bess deeply, and she placed a kiss upon her niece’s head, the scent of lavender rising from the caul she wore over her dark hair. “My sister would be a great fool to not realize the value of your companionship.”
Bess finished gathering her supplies and placed them carefully in her satchel. She bid her niece a fond farewell and departed for the Anwickes’. Rather than meet Mistress Stamford again, Bess chose the path that skirted town and followed the bend of the river. Once she was beyond the last houses, she could rejoin the highway.
The uneven, rocky surface of the track kept Bess from hurrying. A girl, carrying a basket of eggs in one hand and a squawking goose under the other arm, greeted her as they passed each other. Bess paused to watch the girl, wrestling with her goose to keep it from flapping free, as she walked toward town. There were always people, much like her, out and about. It seemed impossible that someone had not noticed an attack upon Fulke, if that was what had truly happened. Unless that was not what had truly happened, and she simply hoped for a different reason for his death than the one the coroner had proclaimed.
Bess resumed walking. The houses that stretched along the highway thinned, and she neared the large dairy that stood at a curve in the road. A servant, turning the cheese wheels resting upon the shelves of the dairy, watched Bess through the building’s open door. Eyes everywhere.
She reached the road. Up ahead lay the Anwickes’ cottage. A tendril of smoke rose from the opening where the smoke bay pierced the roof’s ridge. Good news.
In front of the open door, Goodwife Anwicke had set out a stool and was busy hand-spinning thread in the sunshine. Her swaddled babe slept at her feet. A wiry lad with shocks of red hair sticking out below his cap mended a break in their woven wattle fencing, meant to keep rabbits from their garden and foxes from a handful of scrawny chickens. He had to be one of her other children. The lad looked over but decided Bess did not warrant his attention and resumed his chore.
The woman spotted Bess’s approach, set down her spindle and distaff, and stood. “Widow Ellyott.”
“How is your daughter’s hand today? I came by yesterday, in the morning, but you were not at home.”
“Ah, that. Well. I was in town.” She cleared her throat. “And she is much better. She’s gone with her father and brother to help the widow over the hill glean her field, else I’d have you see for yourself.” She gestured toward the shadows that shrouded the interior of her cottage. “Would you come in?”
“My thanks, but no.” She would not force this woman to extend hospitality when the Anwickes had none to spare. “I have brought more physic for her burn and a salve to keep the scalp clear of unwanted things.”
She handed the items to the goodwife.
“Gramercy,” she said. “I have heard the news about Master Crofton. He was your sister’s husband, no?”
“Yes. He was.”
The goodwife tutted. “Sad, that. Most sad. But only God can understand the workings of our hearts,” she said. “And to think I saw him the morn of the day he died. Gives a person pause.”
“You did see him,” said Bess, her heart beginning to beat more rapidly. “I wondered if you had.”
“I’d come to the window to take down the shutters and saw him on his horse. There.” She pointed toward the roadway about one hundred feet distant. “Even with the fog, I could tell it was him, what with his bright green cloak. Always have admired that long cloak and his tall-crowned hat. Aye. Most handsome.”
“Did you notice him with anyone? Did he appear upset?” The words tumbled from Bess’s mouth, chasing one another in their haste to unearth answers.
“Upset because of what he planned to do?” she asked. “Did not seem so. Either then or when I noticed him in the afternoon. Of course, he was too far away to say for certain.”
“You saw him in the afternoon as well?”
“Aye. Before you came to tend to my girl. He rode along the highway, hunched under his collar and hat because of the rain that had begun.”
But he had never completed his journey home, and Bess had been near enough to where he had died to perchance have witnessed the crime. Gooseflesh prickled.
“It does amaze me, it does,” Goodwife Anwicke was saying. “A man like that. With all the world in his hands. Now my husband, he’s a one with troubles. Not a man like Master Crofton though. Well, except for that bother with them papists. And the arguments he has had with Master Stamford. Ugly, those.”
“Who told you of arguments between them?”
Goodwife Anwicke eyed Bess warily. “My husband saw it for himself at the Cross Keys, but I’ve said enough. I know my place.” Her swaddled babe let out a timely wail. “I’ve my baby to tend to. Good day to you, Widow Ellyott.”
The woman returned to her child and her spinning. Feeling Goodwife Anwicke’s gaze on her back, Bess returned to the road. She now had greater reason to expect that tonight she would confirm that there were two lines around Fulke’s throat. Put there by Arthur Stamford, perhaps, who had argued with Fulke. Or the Langhams, who might wish to avenge the death of a husband and father.
Margery, for your sake I pray I am wrong. But what if I am not?
She looked south. In the distance stood the copse of trees where Fulke had been found. And beyond it, Sir Walter Howe’s manor house, which commanded a sweeping view that encompassed fields, pasture, woods, and town. The Langhams’ house was erected on an opposing rise. The building was less grand than the Howes’ manor of brick and stone but impressive nonetheless, with its multiple stories of elaborate timber construction and whey-colored daub infill. Where it was rumored that Jesuits plotting the overthrow of the queen had hidden behind walls, the openings to their priest holes cleverly concealed. From all except Fulke, who had somehow learned of their location and played informant.
And who now was dead.
CHAPTER 6
Bess climbed the staircase and strode into the upstairs parlor. Through the half-open door in the far wall, Bess could see Joan in Robert’s chamber, leaning across his dressing table to peer into his looking glass. She had pulled the flap of her coif away from her cheek to reveal her scar. Frowning at the image reflected back at her, she brushed a fingertip across its ugly faded-red line.
On soft feet, Bess crossed to the doorway. “Joan?”
With a start, her servant looked over. “Mistress, you gave me a fright.”
“You should not fret over your face.” She had said as much many times. I may as well tell myself to stop mourning my children and Martin.
“Have you not anything to remove it?”
Bess ached for her servant who was more her friend, or the sister she wished she had. “That scar is too old for any of my physic to remedy. I am sorry.”
With a parting glance at the looking glass, Joan let the flap of her coif fall into place against her cheek. “They may be old upon my skin, but they are fresh born every day upon my heart.”
“You are fair and kind and honest, and that is all that should matter to anyone of worth.”
One corner of her mouth lifted with a wry smile. “As soon as you find a man of such worth, prithee do let me know.”
There had only ever been one such man, and Bess had married him.
“I came looking for you because I could use your help in the garden, Joan. I need to take slips of the marjoram.” Tas
ks to keep her mind and hands busy until night fell.
“I would finish in here, Mistress, if you do not mind.” She retied the strings of her coif. “I had come to turn Master Marshall’s mattress and let myself become distracted by my vanity. Here I am, fretting over my face when the family is sorrowing. I am most pitiful.”
“I would never think you pitiful, Joan. You have been stronger than I in so many ways,” said Bess. “I need your strength and courage again. For I have another favor to beg of you.”
“A favor?”
“I require your assistance in a delicate matter, and I would not have Mistress Margery learn of what I intend to do, for she would become alarmed,” she said. “I would not have Humphrey learn of my plans either.”
“A delicate matter you do not wish Humphrey to learn of?” asked Joan, a sly smile twitching the corner of her mouth. “Aye, Mistress, I shall gladly help.”
* * *
“You are here because of Fulke Crofton, are you not, Constable?”
Bennett Langham stared Kit full in the face. They stood in the hall of his family’s house, facing each other like combatants upon a field of war. Around five-and-twenty years of age, he was a handsome fellow, in the way of people who had long enjoyed the comforts of wealth. Proud in his purplish-red, padded silk doublet and matching paned trunk hose, a fine ruff at his neck, a beard trimmed in the latest fashion. His family may have suffered materially since the death of the patriarch four months past, but it seemed the young Master Langham intended to not allow their decline or their disgrace to show.
“I am here to ask if you are aware of the presence of a stranger in this area, Master Langham,” Kit said. “He has been spotted near the priory ruins.”
If he looked out the windows of this very room, he could spy the tumbled stones of the building, its remnants across the highway from the narrow lane that led to Langham Hall.
Searcher of the Dead Page 6
