Searcher of the Dead

by Nancy Herriman

  Bess held her chin high. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the unhappy frown on the baker’s face. The wife of the cordwainer, who had required a salve for his sciatica, watched pityingly. Amice Stamford, standing in the doorway to her shop with her husband at her side, smiled with unconcealed gratification.

  “We are nearly there,” said the constable, his voice quiet and steady. “I will stay with you, if I am allowed.”

  “They will not permit you to stay,” Bess said, deeply touched that he wished to protect her. “They will desire no witnesses.”

  Dearest God, but how her gorge rose. If they tortured her, she did not know how she would bear up, what she might confess. I’faith, she owed the Langhams nothing. She should inform any who would ask that she had seen a suspicious fellow in their house. A fellow who matched the miller’s description of the vagrant, the suspected Jesuit.

  Yet all she could think upon was Bennett’s gentle affection for Margery and Mistress Langham’s sincere protest that she was innocent of any plot to harm the queen. Bess could not live with her remorse if she were to profess to Master Topcliffe that the Langhams were guilty, merely to save her skin.

  “They only wish to ask you questions, Mistress,” he said. “Not subject you to the rack.”

  “How I do pray that is the case, Constable.”

  The churchwarden lived in a modest house located upon a narrow, crowded lane not far from the church. The upper level jettied above the lower, with a bank of casement windows and detailed timbering on the gable that faced the street. A broad-shouldered stranger in a simple dove-gray doublet with crimson knee breeches, the livery of the man he served, answered the constable’s knock. The stiff way he carried himself, and the ferocity of his probing gaze, gave him the air of a former soldier. He showed them into the cross passage. The churchwarden awaited Bess in the hall to their left.

  He was alone in the room, a space as austere and devoid of ornamentation as his attire usually was. Perhaps the absence of retainers was meant to reassure Bess that he was not a threat. She did not feel reassured.

  “Constable, you are not required,” he said, his voice echoing off the rafters and the bare tiled floors. A brief, forced smile crossed his face, then was gone.

  “I will stay to hear the charges against Mistress Ellyott,” the constable answered, resting his hand upon the dagger he carried at his side. He would stand firm by his promise if he could.

  “There are no charges, Constable Harwoode. We merely wish to speak with her,” said Master Enderby, whose tone was mild but whose gaze was cold.

  “Concerning what?” asked the constable.

  “If you insist, then I shall tell you.” The churchwarden leaned back in his carved oak great chair, folding his fingertips atop his waist. The light angling in from the windows outlined the churchwarden’s profile. She had never seen him look so cruel. “Concerning a bit of news freshly received that Widow Ellyott is aware of the presence of a priest in this area and has not reported what she knows about this traitor.”

  Bess’s pulse leaped. Who had informed upon her? “I did tell the constable of a man I thought I saw hiding near the ruins, only to discover no one there.”

  “I did not inform you, Master Enderby, because I determined Mistress Ellyott did not see anyone at the ruins,” said the constable, defending her. “If you do not believe me, though, mayhap you should question my loyalty to the Crown as well.”

  The churchwarden, who had been so carefully observing Bess, turned his attention to the man at her side.

  “Widow Ellyott has befriended the Langhams, despite what her brother-in-law learned about their associations with Jesuits,” he said. “They are recusants and dangerous acquaintances. I have already had to speak to her about her friendliness toward them as well as her own recent absence from church attendance, as is required by the queen’s law.”

  The room encroached upon her, stiflingly close, as if the casements had never been opened to allow fresh air to thin the sharp aroma of the camphor that scented his clothes. Bess could scarce draw a breath.

  “As I told you, Master Enderby,” she said, finding her voice, “I went to Langham Hall to attend one of the servants, who had cut her hand. My visits have had naught to do with priests or plots.”

  “Is that so? I have also heard that you may have provided monetary support to the Langhams for this fellow.”

  “That is a lie. Who is your source that has made such a false claim?” Bess demanded.

  “Come now, I shall not name the person,” he replied.

  “The person” did not reveal if the liar was male or female.

  “In good earnest, Master Enderby, I vow I have not provided monetary support to the Langhams,” she said, glancing over at the constable. She needed him to believe her. “I am but a poor widow, dependent upon my brother’s charity. I have no funds to provide to anyone.”

  The churchwarden tapped his fingertips together. From somewhere in the house came a woman’s cry, followed by loud voices.

  “I cannot allow …” The constable reached for his dagger and charged toward the stairwell in the far corner of the room.

  “Constable, I would not interfere with Master Topcliffe, were I you!” shouted Master Enderby.

  Bess quaked at the possibility that the sound had come from Mistress Langham.

  The house went quiet, and Constable Harwoode returned to Bess’s side. He took her arm, his grip painfully tight.

  “Permit Mistress Ellyott to leave, Enderby,” he said. “She is not involved in whatever conspiracy you mistakenly believe you have uncovered. Furthermore, I have received no orders to arrest her.”

  He began to drag Bess toward the door, where they were met by the liveried servant. Bess could see now that he was taller and more muscular than the constable. He also carried a short sword, which she had not previously noticed.

  “Ask your guard dog to move,” ordered Constable Harwoode.

  “He is not my guard dog, Constable. He is Master Topcliffe’s,” answered the churchwarden. “And I believe it is time for Widow Ellyott to meet him.”

  * * *

  The constable was detained in the hall while Bess was shown up the stairs. The sound of his shouted complaints at the churchwarden as she was led away echoed through the house, followed by the slamming of the front door. The staircase let out onto an upper-floor great chamber, which fed onto other rooms, their doors shut. In this space, there were more comforts—a cloth painted with a banquet scene done in rich burgundies and gold, Spanish leather cushions and bolsters on furnishings, a lovely carved mantel over the fireplace. She would later marvel that she had made note of the furnishings, given the sinking dread that nauseated her and made her faint-headed.

  The liveried retainer led her through an empty bedchamber, similar in ornamentation to the great chamber. He knocked on a closed door set into the opposite wall.

  “Come,” said a man within the room beyond it.

  The space was tiny—the churchwarden’s privy study, Bess surmised—and hardly larger than a cupboard. The smell of fear, rank and stale, wafted out. The study was outfitted with a narrow cabinet and a desk placed beneath a mullioned window, which lent insufficient light for anyone who might desire to work there. One of the panes was cracked; Bess did not know why she made note of such a detail. The desk’s chair had been turned to face a stool. Upon the stool sat a man who smiled grimly at her.

  “Widow Elizabeth Ellyott, is it?” he said. His accent was of the northern counties, which surprised her, as she had expected the voice of a Londoner. “I am Richard Topcliffe.”

  If she passed him in the market, she might make no note of him, not think to cower. He was plain enough, of average height and average weight, his stark black attire unadorned by pinking or elaborate embroidery, his graying beard long enough to hang over the front edge of his modest ruff. The only jewelry he wore was a thin gold ring on his right hand and a pendant, strung upon a heavy chain, that likely marked h
is office. His features did not bear a scar, nor did he possess a deformity that would, as many folk might claim, mark him out as touched by the Devil. The only outward sign of evil were his eyes, which carried a hollowness, an emptiness, as if his heart had never known compassion. Mayhap if she passed him in the market and looked into those eyes, she would cower. For he seemed a man, she decided, who would not permit affection to weaken his resolve, nor allow pity to stay his merciless judgment. A man to be feared.

  “Do not quiver there so, Widow Ellyott. Sit, sit.” He gestured at the chair opposite, then gave a signal to the servant who had escorted her to depart.

  The door shut behind the fellow, enclosing Bess with this most hateful of men. Soon her own sweat of fear would join the stench of the others’, those who had been in this room before her. She dared not venture to ask after the Langhams.

  Bess took the seat, clasping together her hands, which trembled like willow branches in the wind.

  “Have I not heard the name of Ellyott before?” Master Topcliffe eyed her. “In London, I think, and associated with some treasonous plot.”

  Laurence’s plot. He had entangled Martin in his schemes and continued to entangle her, like a spider casting its web far and wide.

  “I cannot imagine that you have done, good sir, as Ellyotts are not traitors.” Her stays pressed against her ribs, and she longed for fresh, cool air. “Indeed, my husband provided money to the cause of defeating the Armada. He and his kin have always supported the Crown. And my family is loyal as well. My brother gave up one of his horses to be used by the armies in the Low Countries and has sent funds.”

  Master Topcliffe, whose hands rested atop the protrusion of his belly, tapped his fingertips together. “Ah.” Her litany had not impressed him.

  “Why am I called here, sir?”

  “I appreciate your directness,” he said, though the look in his soulless eyes suggested otherwise. “In my humble capacity as one of our great Majesty’s pursuivants, I am rooting out decay, which threatens to topple the proud tree of our land.”

  His analogy appeared to please him, and he smiled.

  “I am not decay, Master Topcliffe. I am a loyal subject,” Bess said, though his smirk made plain he had heard such words many times before.

  “I am informed you do not regularly attend church.”

  “I have missed but one service, which I regret most sincerely. Master Enderby will tell you that I and my family attended yesterday,” she responded. “I have given my excuses to the churchwarden, good sir, as to why I have been remiss in the past. Such will not happen again.”

  It would not behoove her to beg for mercy. Richard Topcliffe was as likely immune to pleas as he was unimpressed by claims of loyalty.

  “I am no Catholic,” she added.

  “Mayhap so. But there are hidden Catholics in this town. Yes, even here in Wiltshire, where recusants are as scarce as black swans,” he said. “And you know them. Support them.”

  “Whom do you mean?”

  He shook his head over her vain attempt to feign ignorance. “You would do well to be honest, Widow Ellyott. I mean the Langhams, of course.”

  “I do not know if they remain Catholics, Master Topcliffe. I am not privy to their inner lives. We are not friends.”

  “They would be wise, I believe, to not view you as a friend.” He consulted a scrap of paper, which had lain tucked upon his lap, hidden beneath the sleeves of his robe. Bands of wide black velvet trimmed the cuffs. “For is it not so that your brother-in-law, Master Fulke Crofton, received a reward some eighteen months ago for reporting the Langhams’ support of the Jesuits? Hidden priest holes, I believe.”

  “I was unaware he had received compensation.” Bess idly wondered what Fulke had spent the monies upon.

  “You seem poorly informed,” he said drolly.

  To that, she did not reply.

  “But now you consort with the Langhams.” He squinted at her, the light from the window at her back glittering in his eyes. “Where lies your loyalty?”

  “Most assuredly with the queen.” Bess swallowed, her mouth gone dry, and she gripped the arms of the chair. “And I do not consort with the Langhams, nor do I provide them funds.”

  He leaned forward and placed his left hand upon her right. He pressed it onto the sharply carved wood of the chair’s arm, which dug into the tender skin of her wrist.

  “Tell me where the Langhams hide the Jesuit, Widow Ellyott,” he said, leaning into her, the weight of his body pushing down. Tears rose in her eyes, and she fought to hold them back. “’Tis a simple enough request I make.”

  “I know naught of this.” Every muscle in her body clenched. “You must believe me.”

  “The truth.”

  “Forsooth, you must believe me! I do not know where a Jesuit hides!”

  The pressure of his hand increased as he shook his head. “I am most disappointed with you.”

  Before he could continue his interrogation, a knock sounded.

  “What is it?” he barked.

  The door squeaked open tentatively, and the liveried servant poked his head through the opening, nodding before he spoke. A wrinkle between his brows hinted he was troubled by the news he had brought. “I regret to tell you, Master Topcliffe, that they have found nothing of importance. And the servants have been questioned most acutely.”

  “They have not searched the house well enough.”

  “They vow they have.”

  Abruptly, Master Topcliffe released Bess’s hand and stood. “I shall go there myself.”

  Bess did not move her hand. She would not rub at the ache that throbbed along her arm and disclose how greatly he had hurt her. ’Twas a pointless act of defiance, but she would not allow him the satisfaction of witnessing her pain.

  “You shall remain here with Master Enderby, Widow Ellyott,” he said. “Do not try to leave.”

  He swept from the study, and Bess clutched her wrist, allowing the tears to fall.

  * * *

  “You must see her released from that creature’s grip, Enderby,” said Kit.

  The churchwarden had retired to his knot garden, to stroll among the faded flowers and quince trees as though it were any other autumn day and Topcliffe’s men did not occupy his house at that moment.

  “That creature, Constable, is the queen’s creature and a dangerous man.” He bent to pluck a leaf from a sage plant and lifted it to his face to inhale its aroma. “Not a man to be crossed.”

  “Mistress Ellyott is innocent of any offense,” said Kit.

  “He would not have questioned her if he believed that.”

  “She has done nothing wrong.”

  Enderby looked over. Beneath his black coif and cap, his face twisted into a frown. “She has been seen at Langham Hall. Her niece, who is often in her company and currently resides beneath her roof, keeps company with Bennett Langham. He is the son of a recusant who was jailed for his crimes, and neither Widow Ellyott nor the girl’s mother forbid this acquaintance. You cannot hold that she has done nothing wrong, Constable, for those are crimes aplenty.”

  A servant exited the house and padded across the garden path. He bowed over the note he held out to Enderby. “A message has arrived.”

  The churchwarden read what was scrawled upon the paper.

  “Well, Constable, you are saved from needing to further plead for the woman,” he said, looking up from the note. “Master Topcliffe has finished at Langham Hall because he has been called to the Tower to attend to a priest discovered in Oxford. Widow Ellyott is to be released.” He folded the paper and ran the crease between thumb and forefinger. “But think not that she is cleared of suspicion. I shall watch her most carefully.” He tapped the note against Kit’s chest. “And I advise you to do likewise.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Bess huddled in the corner of the churchwarden’s privy closet, listening for Richard Topcliffe’s return. The only noise came from her guard posted outside the door, who cleared his thro
at on occasion to make her aware of his presence. How long would she remain here? The church’s bell had tolled, and her count of the chimes told her she’d been locked away at least an hour. Margery and Joan would be frantic. She wished she had some means to send them a message that she was well enough.

  A loud voice interrupted the guard’s throat clearing, and the door was flung open to reveal Kit Harwoode. Supporting her injured wrist, Bess scrambled to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, searching her from top to toe.

  “Not terribly,” she said. “Am I to be released?”

  “Aye. And before any decide otherwise, let us get you away.”

  The constable took her elbow and guided her out of the room. Master Topcliffe’s liveried servant was gone. When they descended the stairs to the ground floor, she saw they were alone, without evidence of Richard Topcliffe or his guard dog or the churchwarden. Or the Langhams, who might not be so fortunate as Bess and could yet remain barricaded within some room of the house.

  Constable Harwoode ushered her outside. Once they were a few doors away, Bess stopped in the shadow of a nearby tailor’s shop and pulled in a breath to quell her shaking.

  The constable wrapped a fist around his dagger. “He did hurt you.”

  “In truth, it is not so bad.” Though only her wrist was bruised, the throb had resumed and moved up her arm and into her already aching shoulder. The world around her took to dipping and spinning, and she leaned her head against the shop’s timbered wall. “I fear for the Langhams though. That man is cruel.”

  “What did he want from you?”

  “He demanded I tell him where the Langhams hide a priest,” she said. “But I do not know. I do not—”