“Stay, Quail. I shall return for you.”
Kit set the lantern on the ground near the dog. Without its light, he would be making chase in darkness. With its light, Fenn could easily track Kit’s location.
He ran for the trees, pausing as he reached the edge of the field they bordered. Breath held, he heard splashing off to his right. Fenn was still in the stream and had chosen not to cut across directly but to angle away in better hopes of escaping.
Kit scuttled along the tree line, peering through gaps to search for any sign of movement. The space beyond was black as pitch. As if to further thwart him, clouds returned to overspread the sliver of moon.
Cursing beneath his breath, he halted. He could no longer hear the splashing of water. Had Fenn forded the stream, or did he lie in wait? The man had a weapon; the cut upon Mistress Crofton’s chin was evidence. The clouds once again scattered. Kit was now limned in faint light, and despite the mist, easy enough to see for a man hidden among the shrubs and looking out toward the field.
Where are you, Fenn? Damn, where are you?
He could have made good use of Bess Ellyott’s dog. Without the animal’s nose and sharp eyes, Kit was almost blind.
He searched the ground for a sizable stone and found one. A stone hitting water would not make the same noise as that of a man plunging into the stream, but it might flush his prey anyway. Kit tossed the rock far to his right, where it crashed through the underbrush and struck the water. Nearly in front of him, sticks broke and pebbles scattered, the noise moving rapidly to Kit’s right. Fenn, his feet churning the water, was making for the sound of the rock Kit had thrown.
Cautiously, Kit entered the line of trees. Here, the stream was deep because of the nearby millpond. And steeply banked, as his left foot found the edge of the water more quickly than he’d expected, plunging him to the ankle in icy water. He paused, expecting Fenn to turn and rush him. But he did not. A break in the foliage allowed a silvery gleam of light to dance off of Fenn, headed away from Kit. Bent over, he strode along the stream bank and scanned the undergrowth.
Kit pulled his dagger from its sheath. God help me. “Stand! I arrest you!”
Fenn spun about and charged toward him. He swiped his knife wildly, once, twice, at Kit’s midsection. Kit leaped backward and out of the weapon’s reach, his boots slipping on the loose rocks beneath them. Fenn pressed his advantage, lunging for Kit. He stumbled, and Fenn’s knife connected with the sleeve of Kit’s doublet, slicing through the padded material to the linen shirt and flesh beneath. Kit thrust upward with his dagger. The other man was quick and limber, evading the thrust by dancing to his right and into the water swirling near them. Kit regained his balance and thrust again, aiming for anything. The man fended off the blow and their wrists collided, sending a spasm through Kit’s arm. Fenn’s knife flew from his grip.
“Stand!” Kit shouted again as he shook feeling back into his hand.
Fenn kicked out, the thick squared toe of his leather shoe connecting with Kit’s knee. His leg gave way beneath him. Fenn was upon him, the full weight of his body crashing into Kit, plunging them both into the stream. Water pushed up Kit’s nose, down his throat, into his lungs. Fenn grappled for Kit’s knife, his hands strong. God save me, thought Kit as his head spun. God save me.
* * *
“Oh, Quail. Poor Quail.” Bess ran hands over the dog’s leg. He quivered beneath her touch. A heavy bruise, perhaps, but no broken bones. Nonetheless, he was in clear pain. “I should not have brought you along. Robert will never forgive me.”
Shouts drew her attention away. Reaching for the lantern the constable had left behind, the knife she’d taken from Dorothie’s house firmly gripped in her other hand, she rose to her feet. She set out for the sound, which came from the area of the river. Quail whined and yelped, but she could not turn back.
She tugged at her skirts, trying to hold them aloft.
“Constable!” she cried, uncertain if it was wise to alert Roland to her approach.
As she ran, the lantern’s pool of light jigged across the stubbled field. A narrow path cut across the damp ground, and mist, carrying the dank earthy smell of the matter decaying along the riverbank, swirled. Memories of a spring day in her childhood, the pond water closing over her head, then Robert dragging her free to safety, to life, froze the blood in her veins. Her legs refused to move any longer.
Her pulse thrummed. Men’s bellows and the noise of churning water echoed.
Jesu, Bess. You cannot let him die.
“Constable!” she shouted and pushed forward.
She broke through the brush and held the lantern before her.
Roland had set his knee upon the constable’s shoulders, forcing Kit’s head under the water.
“No!” Bess tossed down the lantern and charged into the stream. The water dragged at her skirts, slowing her progress, and her feet threatened to slip from beneath her. “Stop!” She grabbed Roland’s shoulder and pulled it hard. “Stop!”
He lurched upright, elbowing her off him. She fell into the chill water and struggled to keep her head above it. Roland turned toward her, his hands reaching.
“No!” The knife. She remembered the knife she held.
She arced the blade through the air. It bit into his nearest hand, spraying warm blood across her face. His yell was piercing, but he did not stop coming for her. She swiped at him again, screaming. He grabbed her hand and stripped the knife from her grasp.
“No!” she shouted.
Suddenly, he was tossed aside and away. The constable struck him with a fist, dazing him with a blow to his head. He collapsed into the water.
“Jesu,” Bess breathed. She stumbled out of the stream.
The constable pulled Roland behind him and threw him down onto the bank.
“Is he dead?” she asked, alarmed by the fact she did not much care.
“Nay, Mistress. He breathes,” he answered, shoving hair from his eyes. “Are you injured?”
“I am not, but you are. Your arm bleeds terribly.”
He slapped a hand over the wound. “So it does.”
A shout sounded, and a man hurtled through the brush. “Coz! Mistress!” Gibb Harwoode slid down the embankment to join them. The lantern, tilted on its side, had remained lit and showed the fear upon his face.
“’Od’s blood, Gibb, do not look so frightened,” said the constable. “But I am glad you’ve come.”
“After I left Mistress Ellyott’s home, I went to speak to the watch,” said his cousin. “’Twas then we heard the dog barking out in the field, and I came running. Are you hurt, Mistress?”
Bess rose. Sodden to the skin, she shivered. “Unhurt, Master Harwoode, but I am most cold.”
Roland stirred, and the constable hoisted the man to his feet.
“Hie you back to your sister’s house, Mistress,” said the constable. “We shall not be far behind you with this wretched creature.”
CHAPTER 23
The next day, in the crisp sunshine after the morning’s fog had lifted, Bess knelt in the garden and snipped chamomile. How calm it was compared to last evening, when the constable had been in the hall with a gash to his arm, Dorothie bleeding upon her gown, and Margery in hysterics over the danger that had come so near. Through it all, Maud had managed to sleep by the kitchen fire, not rousing until her mother had come at daybreak to fetch her home.
Bess rocked back on her heels and considered the chamomile. She intended to trim the herb into a path through Robert’s garden, upon which they could stroll to reach the bench against the wall. The scent released by their footfalls would be pleasing, mingled with the aroma of the peonies and gillyflowers and lavender when they bloomed. Robert and his new wife—if his journey to London had met with success—were certain to enjoy the fragrances. As for herself … where would she go? The house had more than enough room for her, but she questioned if Robert’s wife would want Bess to live with them when there might be need of those chambers for child
ren.
You always rush ahead to the worst conclusion, Bess.
Ah, Martin, ’tis a skill of mine.
“Mistress?” asked Humphrey, who was piling together rotted hay near their straw hive. He would set the hay alight to drive off the bees, for it was time to collect the honey within.
“Aye, Humphrey? What is it?” She tossed a handful of clippings into the wicker basket at her side. The clippings would be added to oil to make a curative for the phlegm and other such cold diseases, as the chamomile had properties of heat.
“The stable lantern has never been found,” he said. “You must dismiss Joan, for it is certain she has broken it and will not confess.”
“Ah, that,” she said, looking over at him. “I have been remiss in offering an apology to you, Humphrey.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Mistress?”
“I am the one who took the lantern and mislaid it.”
His countenance darkened for the briefest moment.
“I am most sorry,” she said. “I should have admitted so earlier.”
“Aye.” He scowled and resumed his work.
She wondered, though, how long it would be before he forgave her.
Joan, returned from the baker, hurried through the back doorway, a basket of bread swinging from her arm.
“Mistress! You will not ever believe what I have learned from that Marcye at the Cross Keys!”
She was so disturbed by her news that she neglected to curtsy.
Setting down her shears, Bess got to her feet. “Humphrey, leave us.”
He slunk off for the stables.
“What is it?” asked Bess, once Humphrey was gone.
“I was returning from the baker’s when I spotted Marcye tidying around the front of the tavern. As we never learned who had told the churchwarden you were supposedly helping the Langhams, I thought to ask her,” she whispered urgently. “Marcye makes it her business to mind who comes and who goes at the houses of those who run this town, and Master Enderby’s house is no exception. I thought she might have seen who’d visited him to tattle on you.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Joan, you confuse me.”
“I mean to say, Mistress, she did not see the person because it was her who had done the tattling.” The basket swung as she gestured wildly. “When I pressed her for the names of those who’d visited the churchwarden that day, her guilt overcame her and the truth came out like a gush of ale through an unloosed bung.”
The tavern keeper’s daughter? “Whyever would Marcye wish to cause me such trouble?”
“She is a jealous, petty creature,” said Joan. “Jealous of you and the constable.”
Bess’s cheeks warmed. “She has no cause.”
“She has seen you together and noted his attentiveness,” said Joan. “And she saw you leave his house the other day as well.”
“I was helping him find Master Crofton’s killer, and he has been grateful. That is all,” she said. “And think not that there is more to his actions, Joan.”
Joan bit back a grin. “I do wonder, though,” she said, sobering, “if she was the one slinking around our house the other night and who upset Quail so much.”
“What a dreadful thought.”
Inside the house, Quail started barking, and the constable strode through the open rear door.
“Constable!” said Bess. Joan’s grin returned, causing heat to rise on Bess’s face again. “There you are.”
“No one answered my knock upon the front door …” His glance moved between them. “Forgive me, but I interrupt.”
“Nay. Not at all.” Bess collected her basket of chamomile and shoved it at Joan. “Take this to my still room, Joan.”
“Aye, Mistress,” she replied with a sly smile and a curtsy before sauntering off.
“Joan was just telling me that it was Marcye at the Cross Keys who spread the tale that I was aiding the Langhams,” said Bess. “Do you know the girl well?”
He looked somewhat abashed. “I visit her father’s tavern.”
Ah, then.
“I will speak to her about spreading dangerous gossip, Mistress.”
“Just speak, Constable. I do not desire her punished in the stocks,” said Bess. “Come and sit, if you will.”
She walked over to the garden bench. The neighbor’s servant girl took to singing in the adjacent yard as she worked. She sang a tune about love; Bess rather wished the girl had chosen a different song.
The constable sat and cast an admiring glance about him. In the house, Margery had come to the upstairs parlor windows to peer at them. She was set to return home that day but had tarried over her packing.
“A fine garden your brother has. I envy him it,” said Kit Harwoode.
“Constable, have you come to admire his roses?” asked Bess. “I think not. What is the news?”
“Roland Fenn has confessed all, and Master Langham has been released.”
“Thanked be God. Dorothie will be relieved.” And Margery, also. “Shall Fulke be buried in the churchyard now?”
“Aye. The vicar has arranged for your brother-in-law’s reburial. Also, Wat has returned the items he had selected for his personal use, and I shall see that the churchwarden returns Master Crofton’s cloak,” he said, appearing as though he looked forward to doing so.
“My thanks to you, Constable,” she said. “And now I would have you tell me all that Roland has said. I know he killed Fulke because he felt mistreated, but has he revealed how he managed the crime?”
“Aye, and once Fenn began to speak, he did not want to stop,” he said, rubbing the bandage that last evening she had wrapped around his cut arm. She should examine the wound again today to look for infection. First, though, she would hear the story. “However, his reason was not solely because of mistreatment, Mistress. I believe he is a practiced thief.”
“Oh?”
“Fenn bragged to me of having once served in a lord’s household—”
“Which explains his refined speech and manners.”
“Just so. Fenn implied that he stole from the man but fled before his crime was detected,” he said. “He was also stealing from your brother-in-law.”
“Dorothie accused him of taking money and a silver charger … But why?” she asked. “He has an inheritance in Suffolk that will see him well set.”
“There is no inheritance, Mistress Ellyott,” he said. “He concocted the story to explain how he could so readily leave town without concern for his future. A future he intended to support with the money and items he’d been taking from the Croftons. He had also hoped he might receive a reward from the Crown for reporting on the Langhams. He’d employed Rodge to spy on them—as Fulke Crofton had done before—with the inducement of a bit of ribbon taken from your sister.”
“Rodge had told Bennett he’d come from the Croftons’. But he had been sent not by Fulke, as we had assumed, but by Roland,” she said.
The constable inclined his head.
“But then Fenn learned that Master Crofton was bound for Devizes last Tuesday morn. He concluded, incorrectly, that your brother-in-law went there to report Fenn’s thieving to the justices of the peace,” said the constable. “If his plans to collect his reward and calmly leave town were to succeed, he had to prevent Crofton from ever arriving.”
“And he hated my sister so much that he sought to punish her also by making Fulke’s death look like suicide. He knew the ruling would cause Dorothie to lose nearly everything.”
“Just so.”
Constable Harwoode stretched his legs before him and folded his arms. Out in the courtyard, Humphrey exited the stable with a saddle to oil. He sat with it upon his stool and went to work. Robert was expected back any day now, and all must be in readiness for the master’s return. Jesu, but how to tell her brother all that had occurred in his absence?
“As to the how … Fenn left the house immediately after Master Crofton did, making for the intersection of
the eastern road and the road to Devizes,” explained the constable. “Aware that his master rode slowly and had appeared distracted by his impending meeting, Fenn raced to intercept him. Fenn chose a spot not far from a ditch, thick with grasses and hedges and close by a quiet grove of trees. Perfect for committing a crime unseen.”
A chill raced over Bess’s skin. “And where we found Fulke.”
“Fenn signaled to your brother-in-law, under the pretense that he’d left an important item at the house,” he continued. “When he reined in his horse, Fenn convinced him to dismount, then strangled him with a length of twine he had concealed beneath his jerkin. Because of the morning’s heavy fog, no one noticed as he hid Master Crofton’s body in the ditch, briefly covering him with fallen leaves.”
“Roland is very strong. And to think I ever suspected Arthur Stamford.”
“However, Fenn could not suspend Master Crofton’s body from the tree—pardon me, Mistress, for my blunt words—without assistance,” he said. “So he went to seek out Rodge and paid the lad with coin. The one we found.”
“Then, during the afternoon, he had Rodge dress as Fulke to deceive one and all about the time of Fulke’s death,” she said.
“He did not think to do so until several hours after he’d killed your brother-in-law. His actions were prompted by Stamford’s arrival to search the warehouse, when he also mentioned that Master Crofton wanted to meet with him the next day. Such a meeting was not the act of a man intending to kill himself, and Fenn began to fear that his plan to portray his master’s death as a suicide might unravel. Therefore, he needed to provide himself an alibi, in case the coroner ruled the death a homicide once the body was found. If Master Crofton was believed still alive in the afternoon, Fenn had nothing to fear, because he made certain your sister’s servant girl saw him mending the calf-cote at that time.”
“Which she did tell me about,” said Bess. “Lucy also mentioned that planned meeting with Master Stamford.”
“Fenn took alarm, and thence began the ploy to have Rodge ride about on Master Crofton’s horse,” he said. “Fenn had tied the animal to a tree to prevent it from heading home, wanting to delay a search as long as possible.”
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