“Lucy knows naught of physic and cannot help her.”
“What is this, Mistress?” asked Joan, stepping into the kitchen.
“My sister has need of me, and I must tend to her,” said Bess.
“Must you go now?” asked Joan. “It grows late.”
“I cannot ignore her summons,” said Bess. “I shall not be long. If Dorothie will not be calmed, I shall stay the night. Do not fret.”
Joan frowned. “I mislike this. The fellow who killed Maud’s brother and nearly killed you is yet out there, somewhere. It is not safe for you to leave the village with darkness falling.”
“I shall allay your concerns and take Quail.”
“Scant comfort, Mistress.”
Bess ran a hand down her servant’s arm and smiled into her unhappy eyes. “Go to the constable and tell him what we have learned this night,” she said. “Come, Quail.”
* * *
“At least the girl is safe,” said Gibb, raising his voice to be heard over the lively crowd inside the Cross Keys.
The place was well crammed with relieved searchers, and Kit and his cousin had to jostle through the men—and some women—to take the last two open seats.
“Alive. Which I’d not expected,” said Kit, settling onto the bench against the tavern’s far wall. Marcye had noted their arrival and was elbowing her way toward them with flagons of beer.
“I wonder what gave the child cause to hide,” said Gibb, taking his flagon from Marcye, who lingered as she awaited a greeting from Kit.
He nodded at her, and she strolled off, grinning.
“My guess is the girl suspects who murdered her brother and became frightened,” said Kit, scanning the room. One fellow, deep in his cups, caught Kit’s eye and sloshed beer as he raised his tankard in a salute. They were a merry group. Soon, someone would take up singing, and ten would follow. “But since she cannot speak, her knowledge does us no good.”
“More’s the pity,” said his cousin. “When do you mean to release Bennett Langham? If Mistress Ellyott is certain he is not the man who attacked her and killed Rodge Anwicke, we should let him out.”
Kit took a drink of his beer just as the baker’s son started to sing. “Her observation does not prove Master Langham did not kill Fulke Crofton.” As he’d also told her.
“Marry, Kit, what a wretched business this is.” Gibb frowned. “I think I shall resign from it.”
“Go to, Gibb. You said that when we could not find the apothecary’s stolen pewter dish,” said Kit as three men joined the baker’s son’s wailing. “And the time we accused the innkeeper along the highway of coin clipping, only to later discover the fellow’s sister was guilty.”
“Aye. But this time I mean my words.”
Damn.
A commotion sounded near the door, and Mistress Ellyott’s servant girl burst into the tavern. She searched the crowd until she located Kit and Gibb. She rushed over, eyes and murmurs following her. Including the eyes of Marcye, who stared after the young woman.
“I was told I could find you here.” Glancing at Gibb, she reached for the strings of her coif and tugged, pulling the flaps closer around her cheeks. “My mistress has gone to her sister’s, and I fear for her safety.”
Standing, Gibb offered her his place on the bench.
“Are you afraid for her because it is almost nighttime?” asked Kit.
“Not only that, Constable.” She sat and looked around. “But I shall be overheard if I explain.”
“Gibb, create a distraction that will allow us to speak.”
His cousin sputtered on his beer then began to cough. Suitable.
“You can speak freely now,” said Kit, casting an eye over Gibb to ensure he was not truly drowning on his drink.
“Mistress Crofton sent for her, and there is no denying Mistress Ellyott’s sister when she makes a demand,” said Joan. “I tried to warn her of the danger of leaving the safety of the village to go to the Croftons’ house, with the man who nearly killed her still wandering among us. As we know her attacker was not Bennett Langham,” she added pointedly.
Kit sighed. “I realize your mistress believes—”
“Nay, Constable, we are certain he is not responsible. You are aware that the Anwicke girl is with us. She can speak—aye, she is not a mute—and she saw the man who gave her brother Master Crofton’s hat and cloak. And other items,” she said, whispering beneath Gibb’s continued coughing. A fellow standing nearby moved away for fear of contagion. “Her brother had warned her the man was dangerous. She saw him again this morning—so he could not have been Master Langham—and hid herself away. Her only description of him, though, is that he speaks like a lord and wears dark clothing. We have concluded she means Master Stamford.”
But not Wat Howe? Gibb forgot to keep coughing; he was likely wondering the same as Kit.
“Did your mistress go to the Croftons’ alone?” Kit asked, getting to his feet.
“She took Quail.”
An exceedingly friendly dog. Damn and damn … “Gibb, see this young woman safely back to her house. I go after Mistress Ellyott.”
CHAPTER 22
“Mistress Ellyott, you are good to have come at such a late hour.” Lucy dipped into a curtsy.
“I do not mind the hour.”
Lucy showed Bess through the passage and into the hall, Quail on their heels. The room was a mournful sight. Everything that Sir Walter was permitting to be auctioned off lay in piles about the space—a stack of mattresses, bolsters, pillows, and a bed frame against the wall; the few carpets of lesser value rolled against one another; kitchen goods, jointed stools, and benches had been set in the center of the room, the hall settle apparently taken away along with a tapestry and the Turkey carpet Fulke had purchased. Items of his clothing had been stacked as well, alongside Dorothie’s gowns and petticoats. The churchwarden’s men may have stopped removing her goods, but the delay in the coroner’s new inquest had also delayed her ability to restore her home to order.
A tidy bundle waited near the doorway to the passage. A glint of silver indicated that it was Dorothie’s plate, waiting for her to claim it. Quail sniffed at the package and, deciding it contained nothing of interest, sat upon his haunches to wait.
Lucy noticed Bess looking at the bundle. “Mistress Crofton claims a piece is missing.”
“Her head pains do not keep her from counting her plate, apparently.”
“You know your good sister, Mistress.”
Indeed she did.
“She has gone to speak to Roland about the missing piece, out in Master Crofton’s warehouse,” said Lucy. “The men have already removed the wool from the building, but Roland felt obliged to tidy the space. In the chance any is returned. Should I fetch her now?”
“I will wait until she is finished speaking to Roland,” said Bess, setting down her satchel.
“I do not envy her dealing with Roland this night though. He is in one of his ill humors,” said Lucy. “As he has been ever since … well, I need not mention the reason, need I?”
“The horrible manner of Master Crofton’s death has distressed us all.”
“Aye, but I believe Roland awoke out of temper that day. Snapped at me, he did, when I chided him for tracking mud through the passageway that morning,” she said. “He was not the one who’d need to clean the passageway before the mistress arose and saw.”
Mud. Disquiet roiled Bess’s stomach. “Was this after he had returned from seeing off Master Crofton on his journey?”
“’Twas later. From repairing the calf-cote, I think,” she replied. “Which he spent all day at, though he was needed to take the sheep into the far meadow that afternoon. The work would have gone faster if he’d used that boy who is ever around.”
Who, thought Bess, would that boy be? ’Twas simple to guess. “What boy?”
“Why, the wiry one with the red hair.”
“Rodge Anwicke, you mean.”
“Is that his name?” Lu
cy asked. “Is he not the boy who was … oh.”
“You should have mentioned him before.”
Lucy chewed her lower lip. “Should I have done?”
Rodge. Roland. Curious. Worse than curious, Bess.
Maud had said the man with Rodge, the one she feared, wore dark clothing and sounded like a rich lord. Roland’s excellent manners and refined speech had always marked him as superior to most manservants. And his livery consisted of a jerkin and breeches in an indigo color that was almost black. Further, until this morning upon the road, Bess had never known him to wear scent. Smelling only, perhaps, of damp wool and some wormwood. Just like her attacker.
I have been utterly witless.
Outside the hall windows, which gave a view of the garden and the warehouse beyond, darkness had descended. She could see no more than the pale shape of the building. Dorothie was out there with Roland.
“Lucy, stay here. But listen for me should I call for help.”
Her eyes widened. “Why might you do that?”
Bess hurried across the room, Quail jumping to his feet. From among the pile of kitchen implements arrayed upon the bare floor, she selected a small but sharp knife.
“Mistress Ellyott!” Lucy cried.
Bess handed Lucy a knife as well. “I pray I am mistaken, but you might have need of it.” She glanced over her shoulder at Robert’s dog and headed for the rear door. “Quail, come.”
Knife clutched to her chest, Bess exited the house and crept across the garden, Quail padding behind her. A faint light shone through the open door of the warehouse, the shutters of its two windows closed and barred. Behind her, Lucy peered through the hall windows.
Prithee God, have Joan reach the constable quickly and have him come to help me.
Bess gestured for the dog to stay behind her as she edged toward the door, listening for the sound of voices. When she reached the opening, she heard Dorothie speaking. She stopped and huddled just out of sight of the two within, uncertain of how to proceed.
“What mean you that you know not where the piece of plate has gone? My charger, Roland. Too large for those men to slip beneath a tunic. I tasked you to watch them.”
Roland’s response was muffled, but Dorothie’s reply suggested it did not please her. “You are keen to accuse Master Enderby’s thieves, but now I must ask if it is you who are to blame. For the loss of my charger and the monies in Fulke’s coffer.”
“Have I ever cheated you, Mistress?” Roland’s practiced, educated voice was a soft counterpoint to Dorothie’s shrill one. Sounding like a rich lord.
“In good earnest, tell me the truth of it,” she challenged. “Have you deceived me?”
“I am but your humble servant, Mistress.”
“Pish. You have never been humble, Roland,” she said. “You have served us for many years and faithfully. Return the coin and my charger, and I shall be lenient.”
“I am most grateful.”
“Why do you look at me with such insolence?” she asked.
Dorothie retreated from her servant, and Bess could now see the trailing edge of her sister’s gown, dragging across the dirt floor. Do not vex him so, Dorothie.
Bess tightened her fist around the puny knife she clutched. Roland might carry a weapon as well. He had need of a blade in his daily tasks. If only she knew if he carried it now.
“Do you mean to suggest you resent the years you have spent in our service?” Dorothie asked. “Have we not treated you well?”
“Treat me well?” he sneered. “Well?”
Dorothie took another step backward, and Roland moved with her, coming into Bess’s view. The source of light rested somewhere behind him and cast his face in its shadow. “Your husband never treated anyone well, and neither have you, Mistress.”
“You dare say such a thing, now that you are on the cusp of leaving my household.” She raised herself to her greatest height. “Where is my charger? Where is the coin you have taken from Fulke’s coffer?”
From Bess’s left came the crackle of leaves as a creature skittered through the garden. Quail let out a low gruff bark.
“Hush,” Bess hissed, her heart pounding, and pressed her body against the whitewashed mud wall of the warehouse.
“What dog is that?” asked Roland, the stomp of his footsteps drawing near.
I cannot flee and leave Dorothie. I cannot stay …
Roland charged through the entrance. “Mistress Ellyott.”
Dorothie followed him out of the wool warehouse. “Elizabeth? Why are you lurking out here?”
“Dorothie. I …”
Roland’s gaze went to the knife in Bess’s hand. “What have you there, Mistress?”
“Dorothie, move away. Now.”
“What?” Dorothie glanced between Roland and Bess. “What mean you by this?”
Roland’s eyes narrowed. He lunged for Dorothie, grabbing her arm and dragging her to him. Quail jumped and barked. Roland kicked at the dog, which leaped aside to evade his foot.
“Release me!” Dorothie screamed.
“Quail, away!” Bess shouted. “Quail, quiet!”
Suddenly, a blade appeared in Roland’s free hand. He pointed it at Dorothie’s chest, where the top edge of her gown met the white linen of her partlet. “What now, Mistress Ellyott?”
Quail snuffled and fretted at Bess’s side, eager to be given the order to act.
“Let her go. Let her go and run off. Run as far as you can. I vow I will not follow. I vow I will tell no one. No one else suspects. No one else knows. Rodge’s sister is gone,” Bess said, hoping he’d not learned that Maud had been found.
“Bess,” Dorothie pleaded, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
She could not remember when her sister had last called her “Bess.” It was pitiful and frightening to hear. “Prithee, Roland. Do not harm her also.”
Dorothie’s eyes went wide. “It was you, Roland?”
The light cast by the lantern was faint, but the hatred upon his face showed clearly enough. “I am not responsible for Master Crofton’s suicide. He was distraught.”
“You sought to hurt your mistress, too,” said Bess, coming to understand. “That is why Fulke’s death had to be deemed a suicide. So that she would lose most everything she owned.”
The knifepoint inched nearer Dorothie’s throat. She wore no ruff to fend off its tip. “Roland, forgive me for however I have offended you. Have mercy!”
Her wail prodded Quail to bark and snap at Roland.
“Quail, stop!” shouted Bess.
Angered, Roland swiped at the dog with his knife. Bess lunged for Dorothie, trying to pull her away, but Roland wheeled on her. The knife sliced through the air, barely missing Bess’s arm. She stumbled backward, her weak ankle buckling. Dorothie screamed. Then there came shouts from the direction of the house. A woman’s upraised voice and a man’s. Roland’s blade arced backward, catching Dorothie on the chin, and then he sped off. Quail gave chase.
A spray of blood spewed red across Dorothie’s partlet, and she collapsed. Bess dropped to her knees beside her as Lucy ran across the yard.
“Mistress!” the servant cried.
“Bring linens. Clear water.” Bess undid the kerchief tied about her neck and pressed it to Dorothie’s wound. “Without delay, Lucy.”
“Mistress?” a man asked.
Bess looked up into his face, the dim lantern light from inside the wool warehouse illuminating the concern etched in its every angle. “Constable, Roland Fenn is the murderer.”
“Are you well?”
“I am unhurt. Do not fear for me. Take the lantern from the warehouse and go after him.”
He collected the lantern and ran, following the fading sound of Quail’s barks. The light bobbed and became but a pinprick in the distance.
“Oh, Elizabeth.” Tears gathered in Dorothie’s eyes. That she had reverted to her habit of referring to Bess as “Elizabeth” was a sign her equilibrium was returning, however. “I harbo
red a killer beneath my roof.”
“The constable will catch him and bring him to justice,” said Bess, helping her sister sit upright. The kerchief was turning red from her sister’s blood.
Stones clattered beneath Lucy’s hurrying feet. “Here, Mistress,” she said, handing over a linen cloth and a pitcher of water. “Your kerchief is ruined.”
“It is of no concern, Lucy.” Bess tossed it aside. She doused a corner of the linen cloth with the water and gently daubed her sister’s cut to better see its depth. “The wound is not so deep. It should cease bleeding soon.”
From out in the dark night came a pained yelp. Bess straightened to face the direction of the sound. Quail. Silence fell hard and heavy, the absence of barking alarming.
“Were there others with the constable, Lucy?” Bess had seen none, but mayhap they had waited upon the lane.
“Nay, he was alone.”
“Here. Press your hand here.” She motioned for Lucy to take control of the linen stanching Dorothie’s bleeding. “Take my sister inside and make her comfortable.”
“Do not leave me,” pleaded Dorothie.
“I must.” Bess picked up the knife she had set upon the ground and stood. “If the constable is alone and Quail has been injured and is unable to help corner Roland, Constable Harwoode will need help.”
“Elizabeth, no!”
Despite the freshly throbbing pain in her ankle, Bess dashed into the night. Into the danger she could not ignore.
* * *
Whimpering, the dog struggled to get to its feet, but its hurt leg prevented it.
“Stay.” Gently, Kit pushed the dog back to lie flat upon the dirt. Fenn had kicked the creature, knocking it to the ground. “Stay.”
Raising the lantern, he squinted at the shadowed band of trees that stood ahead of him. A mist arose to shroud them in fog. Fenn was bound for the promise of cover, hoping to escape Kit’s pursuit.
“God’s bones, if I could but better see!”
As if in response, the thin clouds that rode overhead drifted clear of the crescent moon, and it shed its pale light. The trees followed the curve of the stream. Soon Fenn would be across the water, putting a greater distance between himself and Kit.
Searcher of the Dead Page 24
