Searcher of the Dead Page 15

  “Oh, Aunt Bess, how terrible!” said Margery. “This is simply terrible!”

  “Mistress Margery,” said Joan, “we shall require more cloths and your aunt’s stitching quill.”

  She undid the bung sealing the jar. From the aroma that rose, Bess could tell it was her defensative of flour, honey, and turpentine. “Who was it, Mistress?” she asked once Margery was gone.

  “I did not see who attacked me,” said Bess. “It could have been anyone.”

  Joan finished removing Bess’s sleeve. The shift beneath was ruined, and after an unnecessary apology, Joan tore the linen away from the wound.

  “Mistress Margery is right. This is terrible.” She pressed a pad upon the gash to stanch the bleeding. “Only a vile creature would do this to you.”

  “I wish I had seen his face,” said Bess, trying not to flinch as Joan dabbed at the blood. “And now we shall not learn who gave Rodge that coin, or how he obtained Fulke’s hat.” A trap had again failed. This time, a boy was dead.

  “The murderer shall escape, will he not?”

  As Laurence had, drifting like dust among the darkened passageways of London? “If no one else with knowledge of the crimes comes forward … he might.”

  “He must be found,” said Joan. “You were near killed. I could not bear that.”

  “The wound is none so bad as all that, Joan.”

  “But Rodge Anwicke is dead, and you were attacked,” she said, replacing the blood-soaked pad with a fresh one dipped into cool water. “By a man whose face you did not see and cannot identify. If you do not know who this fellow is, Mistress, how can you protect yourself should he seek to attack you again?”

  Bess’s gaze met Joan’s fretful one. How could she answer that? “The constable has set the hue and cry upon the vagrant.”

  “Why does he think the vagrant is responsible?”

  “The fellow is easiest to blame,” said Bess. “None of those who came running saw my attacker, Joan. None of them. ’Twas as if he had vanished into the air.”

  Joan’s hands ceased their work. “Deal we with a living being, or a specter?”

  “God save us if the ghosts have risen to strike us down.”

  * * *

  A specter.

  Bess gripped the edge of her chamber’s curtain.

  As a child, she had heard the tales. A ghost could not appear outside the hours of midnight and cockcrow. Bess’s attacker had struck as twilight had faded into night. Furthermore, the figure that had raised its arm to wield a stone was no specter. He had been as solid as the form of her niece, who watched Bess as she stared out her bedchamber’s window into the gloom of night.

  Margery crossed the room to join her. “You should rest, Aunt Bess. There is no more news to learn.”

  Humphrey had heard that the coroner had correctly ruled Rodge’s death a homicide, but despite the efforts of every able-bodied citizen in town, the hue and cry had not found the culprit.

  “My shoulder and my ankle ache too much for me to sleep,” Bess said, wrapping her arms about her night rail, insufficient warmth against her deep chill. Below them, the watchman’s pole struck the roadway as he passed, his bell tinkling. Across the way, the neighbors snuffed out the candle placed near their hall window, the light blinking out like a star hidden by a passing cloud. “But I would not have you lose sleep as well.”

  “I do not mind staying with you,” said Margery. “Shall I fetch some sweet violets to bind to your head to help you rest?”

  “My thanks for your kindness, sweeting.” A man rushed along the street, a lantern held aloft. The last of those gone out to attend the hue and cry, she supposed. Her gaze tracked the lantern light until it disappeared inside a house. “But neither sweet violets nor lavender will help me rest tonight. Not when another person has died, and I cannot say who is guilty and who is innocent.”

  She turned away from the window and drew the heavy curtains into place.

  Margery set her jaw stubbornly. “The Langhams are innocent. And the constable has placed the blame upon the vagrant.”

  “Do you not understand, Margery? The constable has already attempted to connect the vagrant to the Langhams,” she said. “If the fellow is sought as Rodge Anwicke’s killer, it is not so great a leap to extend blame to Bennett and his family. After all, the vagrant is rumored to be a Jesuit, and it is well known that the Langhams are recusants.”

  “Bennett has no knowledge of this stranger’s designs.”

  “Can you be so certain?” asked Bess. “Only a few days ago, your stepfather accused Bennett of hiding this fellow, of being a traitor once again.”

  “And they have paid for the error of their faith with Master Langham’s life,” Margery responded sharply. “But they do not hide Jesuits. And they do not wish to assassinate the queen.”

  “I have heard that this vagrant wears brown robes,” Bess said, quietly. “When I went to the Langhams’ to tend to their servant, I saw a man there, also in brown robes. I asked you about him.”

  “As if brown robes are so unusual. He could be anyone. A servant, as I said.”

  Her gaze was as flinty and cold as a winter stone. It broke Bess’s heart, but she could not allow affection to pull her up short. “I will ask you again—have you seen such a man at Langham Hall?”

  “If I had, would I betray Bennett and his family by claiming so?” she asked. “I know not who this vagrant is, Aunt Bess. And I am sorry if it was he who attacked you.”

  “I cannot say if he was my attacker. But until he is found, are any of us safe?” asked Bess. “That is my concern. Are you safe?”

  She tried to take her niece’s hand, but Margery evaded her, turning to storm from the chamber.

  * * *

  “Marry, Kit,” said Gibb. “How could he have vanished without a trace?”

  They had left town early, before Sunday services, as the morning sun struggled to break through fog and low-hanging clouds. The chill bit through Kit’s padded doublet and the jerkin he had pulled on over it. Winter was approaching.

  “If he is flesh and blood, he could not have,” said Kit, stretching out his back as he walked. He’d had little sleep and less food. “But the muddy ground around the priory ruins was so trampled by the horde that had come to gawk that any footprints the fellow might have left were erased.”

  “I could have prevented this, had not my father insisted I finish reviewing the ledgers yesterday.” His cousin scanned the fields that spread in rolling waves around them. “An hour’s distraction and now Rodge Anwicke is dead.”

  “Do not reproach yourself, Gibb. I expect the man who killed him would have found another time to murder the boy, if not yesterday.”

  “But I would have witnessed the crime, and we would know whom we pursued.”

  “If we aim to assign blame, then assign it to me,” said Kit. “If I had seen Rodge put in jail for stealing Fulke Crofton’s hat, he would still be alive.”

  And I might have slept last night, rather than twisted and turned upon my mattress, the sight of the boy’s crushed skull refusing to leave my mind. The remembered sight of blood upon Bess Ellyott’s fingers torturing him, too, making him even angrier.

  “At least Mistress Ellyott is not seriously injured,” said Gibb, as if reading his thoughts.

  “This time.”

  A plowman was out in the nearest field, tending to a pair of oxen that munched a pile of hay. He spied Kit and Gibb and signaled to them to stop.

  He slogged across the field to the road and doffed his cap. “Have you found the fellow, Constable?”

  “If you mean the murderer, no,” said Kit.

  The man nodded in the direction of the Anwickes’ cottage. “’Twas their boy who died, was it not?”

  “Aye. What do you know of him?” asked Kit.

  “I will say I am glad he was not my son,” he answered. “His father will not be sad though.”

  “Is his father a violent man?” asked Gibb.

  Th
e plowman’s gaze narrowed. “I thought the vagrant was blamed for killing the boy.”

  “We must consider others,” said Kit.

  “Well, the lad’s father would not bother to lure him to those ruins and strike him down there. What fear had he from the law if he punished his son too severely and the boy died because of it?” The plowman shrugged. “None.”

  “Another, then,” said Kit. “For example, one who may have paid Rodge to complete a task that this person did not wish others to learn of.”

  “’Tis no secret that lad could be hired to do any sort of job. Even foul ones.”

  “Can you put names to those who hired him?”

  The fellow began to list people, turning as he pointed out almost every house and cottage within eyesight. He and Gibb might need to question all the villagers about their actions yesterday at twilight. “I hear he has worked at Langham Hall, and the gardens at Highcombe Manor as well,” the plowman added.

  Kit did not care for the amused glint in the man’s eyes as he relayed that piece of information. “Is this not Sir Walter’s land you rent?”

  The glint vanished, and the plowman slunk backward, his moment of rebellion quashed.

  “What about the ruins where the Anwicke boy was found,” said Kit. They sat in the distance, curling bands of fog creeping across the damp meadow to lick at their stones. “Have you ever seen the vagrant there?”

  “The Jesuit, you mean,” the fellow said. “Nay, sadly. For if I had ever seen the fellow, I’d have tracked him down and brought him to the burgesses. I’ve no love for his kind.”

  “If you hear news of him, tell us.” Kit thanked him and continued on.

  Gibb trotted alongside, his hand gripping the weapon at his waist to keep it from slapping against his hip. “Everyone thinks the vagrant is a Jesuit. Topcliffe or his fellows will come here for certain.”

  “’Tis trouble we have no need of.”

  “And to hear that the boy had done work at Highcombe,” said Gibb. “You were right to wonder if Wat knew the boy.”

  “He did not recognize Rodge’s name when I mentioned it.”

  “Mayhap Wat has no need for names.”

  “Mayhap so.”

  They arrived at the Anwickes’ cottage, its windows shuttered and door closed.

  “Are they gone to church already?” asked Gibb.

  “We shall find out.” Kit pushed open the gate hanging loosely from the wattle fence and strode up to the door to knock upon it. Several moments elapsed before Goodwife Anwicke answered.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the babe she bounced upon her hip sniffled and clung to its mother’s sleeve.

  “Have you found Rodge’s murderer?” she asked. From within the cottage, the girl who’d been Mistress Ellyott’s patient peered at them. The hazy light coming through the open door fell upon her bruised face, and her large dark eyes stared like those of a cornered animal.

  “I’ve no such welcome news for you, Goodwife,” he said.

  She squeezed her lips together as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why?”

  “Do you know of any who wished your boy harm?” asked Gibb, his voice sweet. He had a soft manner when it came to questioning women, a manner that could calm them.

  “The lads in town were cruel to him. Called him a dullard and a wantwit. All because he could not read. Who has the time for such fine things as hornbooks when there are mouths to be fed, I ask you?”

  “I do not believe he was killed by one of the town boys, Goodwife,” said Kit.

  Another girl, older than Maud and equally thin, came from the back room to join her sister. She sidled over to Maud and put her arm around her, but the younger girl threw it off.

  “That coin and that hat were accursed,” said Goodwife Anwicke.

  “You mean that odd hat Rodge had? The tall one with the feather?” asked Maud’s sister. Maud scowled and slapped the girl’s arm. “Ouch. Stop that, Maud. What is the matter with you?”

  “Fighting now?” cried their mother. “At such a time? Put on your blue kirtle for church, child.”

  Maud stomped into the rear room.

  “Must we go to services today?” asked her sister. “After what happened to Rodge?”

  “’Tis the best time to go,” said her mother.

  “When did you see Rodge with the hat?” Kit asked the girl, before her comment was forgotten.

  She scuttled over to the doorway, seemingly pleased to be asked a serious question, like an adult. “The other day, sir. When I went to fetch him to dinner. He had it then.”

  “Which day?” asked Gibb.

  “Why, the day Maud got her bruise and the healer from town came to tend her burn,” she answered. “The day that man hung himself.”

  “Tuesday at midday, then,” said Kit. Hours before the lad had claimed he’d found the hat in a ditch. Hours before Fulke had supposedly been seen upon the road, returning from Devizes astride his horse and with his hat upon his head and his cloak about his shoulders.

  “Aye, sir.” The girl gave him a look as if he were daft to not have understood. “Afore dinner.”

  “Goodwife Anwicke, you told Mistress Ellyott that you saw Master Crofton riding along the Devizes road on Tuesday afternoon, did you not?”

  “Aye, so I did.” Her gaze darted between Kit and her daughter. “I do not understand.”

  “If Rodge already had Master Crofton’s hat at midday, it was not Fulke Crofton you saw that afternoon,” said Kit, his jaw setting. “It was either the murderer or his accomplice.”

  “But what has that to do with Rodge?” she asked.

  “I am not happy to say this, Goodwife, but a coin in his possession suggests he may have been paid to help a killer,” said Kit. “Perhaps to ride around wearing a dead man’s cloak and hat.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Mistress, we may leave now,” whispered Joan. She had come from the church’s rear seats, meant for servants, to take Bess’s arm. “They have all gone from the porch and retired to their homes.”

  Bess lifted her eyes to the simple wooden altar. At one time, according to Robert, the arch above the chancel had been decorated with a great doom scene of Christ and his mother and the angels trumpeting the coming of the judgment. But that scene and the colorful images of heaven and hell that had once adorned the walls were buried beneath plain white plaster, all signs of its former life as a Catholic church obliterated. There were no images to gaze upon now, the worshippers to focus upon God, not symbols. Those in attendance had not been focused upon God, however; they had been focused upon Bess. They would gossip—not all of them unkindly—when they returned to their halls to dine that day.

  Had she heard the vicar’s sermon or joined in the prayers? She had prayed for peace for the Anwickes, that she recalled. She had prayed for Dorothie as well. Prayed for her sister’s boys and for Margery and the Langhams … for all of them, for strength against the darkness that hung like heavy summer clouds presaging a storm.

  “My head aches, Joan,” she said, rising from the pew. “Has Margery gone back to our house?”

  Her niece, hands gripped tightly in her lap, had sat alongside Bess with her head bowed. The congregation would gossip about her, too. The Stamfords had occupied a pew not far behind Bess and Margery. At least Bess had not had to look upon Sir Walter, who attended another church with his kinsmen, and wonder if he had, in truth, gone to the mill last night to chase down a vagrant. Or if he had instead lain in wait in the ruins of a priory to kill a boy he no longer trusted.

  “Aye, she has done,” said Joan, taking Bess’s elbow. “With Humphrey.”

  They slowly made their way out of the church, Bess limping upon her tightly bandaged ankle. As it was Sunday, most shops were shuttered, and the structure that housed the market stalls stood empty. Three young boys splashed through pools of water that had collected from a spit of rain before sunrise, whirligigs spinning in their hands. Groups of people, strolling home from the morning service, chat
ted with one another. They paused to look her way as she and Joan crossed the square. It seemed the only living creature that did not halt upon spotting her was the pig that once again wandered free of its cote to snuffle in the rubbish of a nearby gutter.

  In London, it was simple to be anonymous, a person’s actions known to but a few and commented upon by even less. Not so in a town of this size.

  “Do not mind them, Mistress,” said Joan. “In fact, the barber’s eldest girl asked most kindly after your health.”

  “They mistrust me for being a stranger.” Or for being a witch, if the constable’s alarming comment had been any indication of some people’s thoughts. “Mislike me for being related to Fulke. Mayhap they even believe I deserved last night’s attack.”

  “Nay, do not think so, Mistress. They have come to respect you for having healed so many,” she insisted.

  They continued past the market cross, the building that housed the stalls, and the central well. Amice Stamford had already returned from church to stand in her shop’s doorway, watching Bess’s progress. Before the woman could hike the skirts of her gown to dash across the square to intercept them, Bess heard her name being called.

  “Widow Ellyott,” the man repeated.

  It was the churchwarden in his usual all-black attire, swooping toward her like a raven intent upon a piece of carrion.

  Bess extracted her arm from Joan’s grip. “You may go on, Joan. I can hobble the rest of the way alone.”

  Joan frowned at the churchwarden as he drew nearer. “Are you certain?”

  “I would keep you away from him,” she said. “Go prepare the meal. I shall be home anon.”

  Bess shooed her away and greeted the churchwarden. “Master Enderby.”

  “I am pleased to have seen you at service this morning.”

  “I said I would attend.”

  “Even in your condition. Most commendable,” he said. “I heard of your misadventure last evening.”

  “I am grateful to Constable Harwoode and the men who rushed to my aid for chasing off the man who attacked me,” she said. “If they’d not, I might not be speaking with you now. Or able to attend services.”