With a deep sigh, Bess stopped and looked around, the first drops of rain pelting her. A swirl of wind stirred ashes and resurrected the smoky scent of the burned wood. She squinted at the ashes, which had been disturbed by more than a breeze. A faint trail led toward the far side of the chimney and what had once been the back entrance. The rear of the house had suffered more damage than the front. Burned timbers rose above the stone half walls like the blackened teeth of a rake, the mud that had filled the space between the beams turned to dust. Her eyes traced the trail from its origin to where it appeared to fade and disappear. It led to nothing but a crosshatch of fallen timbers, the detritus of the table and stools that had once occupied this room, the bent remnants of a scorched brass kettle. If she dug around, she might find the nest of a family of mice, their tiny feet having worn the path over the months. However, she would not find a hiding place for a creature any larger than a mouse, let alone a man.
Mindful of the soot darkening the hem of her gown and ruining her shoes, Bess picked a path over to the chimney. Using her uninjured hand, she knocked against the bricks, but none sounded hollow. She pressed against the timber adjoining the chimney, which did not budge but did blacken her fingers. Wiping them against each other, Bess scanned the wall and the chimney one final time. The rain was coming down hard now, and she would be soaked and filthy.
“And frustrated,” she muttered.
Martin, I have failed. I do not see.
Defeated and damp, Bess tucked the hood of her cloak closer about her face and retreated from the house.
“Mistress Ellyott?” called out a man’s voice. Roland Fenn stood at the edge of the road, rainwater staining his deep-indigo jerkin and dripping from the brim of his hat. Doffing his cap, he gave a courteous bow. “What do you there, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Oh, nothing, Roland. I have always found these ruins rather sad and intriguing. I indulged my curiosity on a day equally sad,” she said.
He extended a hand to help her climb the rise of the roadbed. From off his clothes, she caught a whiff of scent that was familiar, the smell of musk. The scent Fulke used to wear. Bess wondered if Dorothie knew that her servant had taken advantage of the confusion of recent events to help himself to her husband’s perfume. She would not be pleased.
“How fares my sister this damp morn?” she asked.
“Mistress Crofton is hopeful that the coroner will change his ruling today, given the news about Master Langham. We have heard the coroner was conducting an inquest away from town but has returned.”
“But even if the ruling is overturned, you shall not stay on, shall you?” she asked, turning up the road toward town. “You have an inheritance, I understand. Life as a man of property is much better than a life in service.”
A look she could not decipher—amusement at the obviousness of her comment, perhaps—flitted across his even features. “My term of service has been completed, Mistress, and I may now take advantage of my inheritance. However, service to the Croftons has been an honor I will forever be grateful for.”
They passed the Anwickes’ cottage, shutters in place but the door cracked slightly to admit some light. She needed to visit Maud again, to ensure the girl was properly healed. Mayhap she should stop now and also offer her condolences over Rodge’s death.
“Walk on, Roland. I would visit a patient,” she said.
She watched him hasten off, smiling to herself over his conceit of using Fulke’s musk scent.
That is it, she thought, her hand upon the Anwickes’ gate. Her attacker’s scent, or lack thereof. For Bennett’s clothing ever smelled of rosemary, as did his mother’s. And her attacker had smelled of nothing more than damp wool.
CHAPTER 20
“Why do you continue this needless discussion of Fulke Crofton’s death, Constable?” The coroner, wearing a green cloak Kit had not seen on him before, stomped through his hall and into his privy office. Though the morning’s rain had stopped, he tracked damp across the rush mats covering the floor. “I have been back in town but a few minutes and you cannot give me peace from this matter.”
“Is that Master Crofton’s cloak you wear, Crowner? I recall seeing it upon the man’s body.”
The man clutched at it jealously. “Sir Walter did not desire the man’s clothing. Aside from Crofton’s shirt and breeches, in which he was buried, I and the men who assisted in the burial split his goods between us.”
“Then I comprehend why you do not wish to hear me out,” said Kit, folding his arms as the fellow took a seat upon his cushioned chair. “You would have to return that cloak you wear to Mistress Crofton.”
“I need do nothing of the sort.”
“As you have only just returned from your short journey, perhaps you’ve not heard that Master Langham is in our jail, awaiting transfer to the Fisherton jail tomorrow,” said Kit.
“Enderby was here before you. He told me,” said the coroner. “I congratulate you on identifying Rodge Anwicke’s killer. The Langhams are a blot upon this good town. But this boy’s murder has naught to do with Fulke Crofton’s death.”
“Hear me out. I told you about the two lines I saw around Crofton’s throat,” said Kit. “And Master Langham has reasons you well understand to wish Fulke Crofton dead.”
The other man groaned. “God’s truth, Constable, must you persist?”
“Further, a little more than a week ago, Langham caught Rodge Anwicke spying upon Langham Hall. At Crofton’s behest,” said Kit. “Trouble again from the man who’d caused the death of Bennett Langham’s father. Trouble enough, perchance, to enrage him and to decide upon revenge.”
“I see.”
Kit took a step nearer the coroner. “Reconvene your jury and change your ruling, Crowner. Fulke Crofton did not commit felo-de-se.”
The coroner pursed his lips. “Send the summons to my jurors, Constable. I expect your attendance so that all may hear your evidence.”
Kit thanked him and strode from the room, back through the low-ceilinged hall and out the front door. Convincing the coroner was a minor triumph. Though if Bennett Langham were convicted and hanged, it would not be a triumph Kit would be proud of.
A sour taste in his mouth, Kit wove his way past the stalls set up around the stone market cross. The square was alive with the tumult of market day. Thread and woven goods in that stall, cheese in this one, a gaggle of geese honking noisily over there. In the commotion, he almost missed Bess Ellyott pushing through the crowd, which had come out in goodly numbers after the rain.
“Mistress Ellyott!” he called out.
She hurried over to him, her cheeks flushed.
“The coroner has agreed to reconvene his jury,” he said.
“He has?” she asked. Her gaze narrowed, and she scowled. “Because Bennett is imprisoned. That is why the coroner has changed his mind. But you must free Master Langham. He is not the man who attacked me and murdered Rodge.”
He glanced around them; several of those in the square slanted looks their way. “Come away from here.”
None too gently, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the bustle of the market.
“Constable, you may cease dragging me about,” she said. “You have forgotten my ankle and my other hurts.”
They stopped at the entrance to a nearby alley.
“You yourself told me of the fellow with the red-lined cloak,” he said. “Has your niece convinced you to recant your story so that her beloved is freed?”
“My assertion has naught to do with my niece,” she said sternly. “Constable Harwoode, this is what I know. The man who attacked me was about the same size as Master Langham, but his clothing did not smell of rosemary.”
Kit arched an eyebrow. “Rosemary.”
“Did you not notice its aroma upon Mistress Langham’s gown when you helped her into my house? They pack their clothing in the herb, she and her son, and the scent is always with them. Say you did, for I know you must have done.”
&nbs
p; “I have noticed.”
She nodded, her point made. “My attacker smelled of damp wool. Mayhap a small amount of wormwood, but nothing more. And certainly not the distinctive aroma of rosemary.”
“You were injured and in pain. Perhaps you do not recall properly.”
“Constable, this is not a woman’s fancy, and I know my herbs and my spices. You must release Master Langham.”
“Mistress, even if I believed a remembered smell—or lack of smell—is proof he did not kill Rodge Anwicke, your recollection does not acquit him of killing your brother-in-law.”
“To blame Bennett for Fulke’s death, but not Rodge’s, would have to mean there are two murderers, Constable.”
He buffed his fingertips against his beard. “Just so, Mistress,” he agreed. “Just so.”
She peered at him. “Do you really think that situation is likely?”
“Until I know otherwise, I may have to.”
* * *
“The constable will not release Bennett, Margery.” Bess paced the hall, sidestepping a lounging Quail. The dog had sprawled across the floor beneath the windows as sunshine fought the clouds and warmed the spot he had chosen. “I might be certain he did not attack me, but we have no proof, besides his mother’s word, that he is not responsible for your stepfather’s death. I am sorry.”
Margery rose from the settle. Dorothie had permitted her daughter to remain at Robert’s until all could be put to rights at their house. In truth, Bess wondered if her sister sought to distance herself from Margery so long as Bennett remained in the town prison cell. Her own daughter, set aside to protect her reputation. Shameful.
“I must go to Bennett,” said Margery.
“You will do no such thing,” said Bess. “We have drawn enough attention to this family, and for you to go there on a market day, with all and sundry to gawp, even folk from the countryside … Margery, you cannot.”
Scowling, Margery retook her seat. “Then what are we to do?”
“There is naught else for us to do.” Bess stopped by the window and stared through its diamond-shaped panes. Kit Harwoode had asked her to trust him and have faith he would continue to search for Fulke’s killer. The prospects were grim, though, that Bennett would be found innocent of the crime. “Bennett’s fate rests in the constable’s hands.”
“In the meantime, he suffers in that damp and cold cell,” said Margery.
She looked over at her niece. “’Tis better there than at the jail in Fisherton. He is strong, and the constable will ensure he is treated well.”
But Bennett would soon be transferred to the shire jail, too far away for them to tend to his care.
“I must confess something, Aunt Bess.” Margery twisted her hands together. “About the brown-robed stranger. I have seen him at Langham Hall.”
At last, the truth.
“I wish you had trusted me enough to have admitted that earlier, Margery.”
“I was frightened for them.” Margery’s eyes searched Bess’s face. “I am sorry. In truth, I am.”
“I’faith, it no longer matters.”
“I have more to tell you.” She dropped her gaze and began picking at her fingernails. “The reason Bennett was riding upon the road the night Rodge died was because he had been with me.”
Jesu. “You were not at church late that afternoon, then, as you told Joan.”
Her niece shook her head.
Bess joined Margery upon the settle. “What have you done?”
Margery’s face pinked. “Nothing like that! Nothing wrong. And no promises were made. I vow this, Aunt Bess,” she said. “However, Bennett wished to protect my reputation, he is so kind and so good, and was willing to be accused of that boy’s death. I should have told the constable when he was here yesterday, but I’d assured Bennett I would keep our secret.”
She began to cry, and Bess drew her near. “Hush, now. We shall see justice done.” I pray.
Joan, a jug of ale tucked beneath her arm, entered the hall, a draft of cool outside air chasing her. “Mistress, Goodwife Anwicke is here to see you. I met her upon the street as I returned from the alehouse. She wishes to speak with you most urgently.” She glanced at Margery.
“Dry your eyes,” Bess whispered to her niece. “It is Maud? Has her wound festered?” she asked Joan, and stood.
“She did not say.”
“Send her in, Joan.”
“She will not come inside,” said Joan. “She protests that her shoes are too filthy, and she would not dirty our matting.”
“Pish.” Bess gathered her skirts and strode across the room and out the open front door.
Goodwife Anwicke stood at the side of the lane. She joggled her infant upon her hip. Margery came outside to join them upon the road.
“Has Maud come here, Widow Ellyott?” the woman asked. “Have you seen her?”
“No. Why?”
“She has run off. ’Tis not like her.”
“She shall return soon,” said Bess. “She may be at your house now, while you speak to us here.”
The woman shook her head fiercely. “She has gone. She was all skittish this morning, and now she is gone.” The child she clasped squirmed, its face pinching as it readied a wail. “I sent her sister to search for her, but she has not found the girl. First Rodge and now … Maud is lost. She is ne’er lost. I am afeared for her.”
Jesu.
“Joan, go to the constable. Tell him we must alert the town to search for the girl before …” She glanced at Goodwife Anwicke and held her tongue. The woman already fretted for her daughter’s safety; she did not need her opinion confirmed. “Tell him all who can must search for Maud. Goodwife, you should return home to wait for her.”
“I will continue to look for my daughter. I cannot sit and wait.”
The woman hurried off, the skirts of her faded gray-wool gown swinging and her infant bouncing upon her hip.
“I would help the search,” said Margery.
“I prefer that you stay here,” said Bess. “Joan, after you have spoken with the constable, you may help, should you so desire. And tell Humphrey I require him to assist. But if Maud is not found before the sun sets, return home. I trust not what has occurred. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.”
* * *
Townsfolk had spread out across the fields, their sturdy tunics and jerkins of brown-blue or faded red moving spots of color among the tawny harvested fields.
“Maud!” Bess cried out, scanning her surroundings.
Her call was echoed by those who trudged through adjacent fields, muddy from the rains. Others searched the meadows, scattering wary sheep. Startled birds lifted into the sky, a rabbit dashed across the road, and dogs barked and chased.
But no one signaled that they had found the girl. Though Maud was mute, they all hoped she would make some type of noise in response. Any noise. Any sound.
Bess noticed a man riding along the east-west road, the setting sun flashing off the spangles sewn onto his jerkin. He paused to shout an order. It was Sir Walter, attending to his duty as the lord of the manor. Was it duty or guilt that spurred him to help find a lowly cottager’s child, the sister of a murdered boy? Or had he a more devious motive?
He glanced in Bess’s direction, then looked away and rode off.
“Maud!” she shouted again. The calls of fellow searchers sounded as frustrated as Bess felt. The only reasons for Maud to have vanished were bad ones.
A man who looked like the baker ran toward the trees lining the stream to the east of where she walked. The water probably surged high within its banks, with today’s rain adding to the swell of recent days. Would they find Maud there, her body drifting on the water, her oft-mended dress snagged upon a fallen branch, the loose sole of her shoe flapping as the current tugged it? Her skin blue and cold, her soul gone to a better place. The person who’d killed her brother may have silenced her also, a mute child but not a blind one.
The baker reached the shrubs an
d plunged into the shadows. Bess did not have the courage to follow him; she was too afraid of the water.
I can be such a coward.
“Maud!”
Bess strode through the field, stumbling across the ridges made in the freshly turned earth, the mules she wore heavy with mud. Her sprained ankle ached with each laboring step.
She crested the small ridge, her gaze settling upon the priory ruins and those of the plague house. Two fellows picked and prodded among the stones of the priory. Another man warily poked his head through the plague house’s doorway. After a hasty inspection, he decided against entering the building and skittered back to the road to rejoin his mates. They conferred for a few moments, then hurried off as though ghosts snapped at their heels.
Ghosts. Vapors. A disappearing man. A disappearing girl.
Maud, where are you?
The baker reemerged from the trees empty-handed and headed toward town. He was not alone in his decision to return home. Others tramped back toward the village as well. Bess did not blame any for quitting; twilight approached, and the evening’s meal awaited.
The breeze chilled her skin, and Bess retied her kerchief around her neck. She should go home also, resume her search in the morning when the light would be better.
But would Maud still be alive then?
Sighing, she limped across the field, choosing a path wide of the priory ruins. She paused on the road, looking back at the mournful remains of the plague house. She narrowed her eyes. Something was out of place, but she could not tell what.
She forded the water-filled ditch at the base of the road and cautiously approached the house.
“Maud?” she called, pausing to listen. The response was the whisper of the wind. Distant voices, sheep bleating. No sound that the girl had heard and tried to beckon to her.
“God save me,” Bess murmured and stepped through the opening.
The day’s rain had tamped down the ashes and turned the narrow paths between fallen beams from gray to black. She tucked her gown and red petticoat into the girdle she wore, raising their hems off the ground.
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