Searcher of the Dead Read online

  He tilted his head to one side to better inspect her. The pose reminded her of a bird watching for insects. “I have heard you did not see the man’s face.”

  “I did not.”

  “So you cannot say for certain it was the vagrant?”

  “As I said, I cannot identify my attacker, Master Enderby,” she replied, holding his gaze. “All I know is that it was a man.”

  “Ah.” He gathered his robe in his fist. “Lest I forget, I would have you know that Master Topcliffe does indeed intend to visit us. I am most glad I can be assured that I need not inform upon you.”

  “May I ask the reason for his visit?”

  “It is not in my power to say,” the churchwarden replied.

  “Is he coming because of the vagrant?” If so, the Langhams were in great danger.

  A tiny smile flitted across his broad face. “Good day to you, Widow Ellyott,” he said and strolled off.

  In not two breaths, Amice Stamford bolted from her shop doorway and charged across the square toward Bess, her farthingale making her skirts sway like a bell.

  “Mistress Ellyott, I was surprised to see you at church. After what happened yester-even,” she said, her pale eyes scanning Bess from tip to toe. “I am glad you are not severely injured.”

  “My thanks for your concern,” Bess answered, awaiting the true reason Mistress Stamford had stopped her.

  “It is whispered about town that the boy’s death is connected to that of your brother-in-law,” she said. “And that the constable has decided Fulke Crofton was murdered. You have convinced him with your foolish ideas.”

  “He has seen the proof I have seen.”

  “Which is?”

  Bess would not answer that question. “Were you aware your husband sought to examine Fulke’s warehouse the day that my brother-in-law died? There is no need to deny his visit, Mistress Stamford,” Bess said, forestalling her rebuttal. “My sister’s servant recalls it quite clearly. He was angry and demanded access to the building where the shearings are stored. He made threats against Fulke.”

  Amice Stamford paled. “You yet seek to blame Arthur. I did not realize you hated us so to make such vile claims.”

  “Mistress Stamford, you are an honest woman. This I know.”

  “You wish to flatter me now?”

  Bess reached for her hand. Her skin was soft, as soft as Margery’s. Did she anoint it with the oil of almonds to keep it so? Bess’s own fingers were rough, coarse from hours spent grinding spices and washing herbs, mixing salves and plasters.

  “Tell me that your husband did not go out at twilight last night,” said Bess.

  “To do what? Murder that boy?” She twisted her fingers free from Bess’s grip. “For what possible reason?”

  “Fulke was murdered. Rodge Anwicke was murdered,” said Bess. “Their killer must be found.”

  “And that person is not my husband!” she spat. “Arthur had returned from meeting his weavers in Chippenham to sup with me at that time. And, though I be but a female and the wife to my husband and can make no claim in the courts, I shall tell the constable and any justice of the peace who wishes to question me just the same. There will be others who will vouch for him as well. I vow that, Mistress. And you are a foul creature to think him responsible.”

  She spun so sharply on her heel that her gown flared about her ankles.

  Bess turned as well and, pretending not to notice all the eyes, all the murmurs, hurried for Robert’s house.

  Joan had spotted her and flung open the door. “Mistress!”

  “I have made an enemy of Amice Stamford, Joan.” Why can I not be more circumspect? Less unruly?

  “Ah, that one,” Joan said, stepping aside as Bess entered. “What did Master Enderby want with you?”

  “Master Topcliffe,” said Bess. “He is coming.”

  “Humphrey did hear aright.” The frown upon Joan’s face was severe. “Mistress Margery has gone out. I fear she has gone to Langham Hall. Humphrey mentioned, in her hearing, that Master Topcliffe is headed our way. Mistress Margery fled soon after, and I have no power to stop her.”

  Margery would go to Langham Hall to warn Bennett about Master Topcliffe’s impending arrival.

  “Fetch my mules and my cloak,” Bess ordered, unpinning her hat and handing it to Joan. “I go to the Langhams’ as well. To fetch Margery home before she embroils herself too deeply in their treason.”

  * * *

  The rain that had left puddles in the square returned, quickly turning the lane muddy. To avoid passing the priory ruins, Bess had taken the westernmost road to Langham Hall, but the route she’d chosen was longer. By the time she arrived, she was as mud-spattered and bedraggled as a dog left to wander in a storm.

  The same servant who had opened the door before once again answered her knock. She surveyed Bess’s appearance before allowing her into the screens passage. She was to go no farther.

  “Have you come to see Anne, Mistress?” she asked.

  Bess’s cloak dripped grimy water onto the chevron-patterned reed matting that stretched the length of the passage. “Is that the name of the kitchen maid with the cut finger?”

  “It is. But she is well and has no need of your services, so far as I know.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, but I have not come to see to Anne,” said Bess. “I am looking for my niece, Margery. She is here, is she not?”

  The servant’s face went as pink as one of Robert’s roses in summer. “I … your niece?”

  “No doubt you know her.” The girl’s behavior made no sense. Bess peered at her, which made the servant even more uncomfortable. “Margery Crofton. She comes to visit Master Langham.”

  The pink shaded to red. Had this girl helped them secretly meet, charmed by the thrill of forbidden love?

  “She is not here today, Mistress,” she said.

  “I do not believe you. Fetch my niece here now,” Bess said sternly, “lest I tromp through Langham Hall in search of her myself.”

  To ensure she was taken seriously, Bess took a step toward the opening in the screens passage the led to the hall.

  “Mistress, wait!” she squealed.

  Bess strode through the opening just as Margery rushed across the hall toward her, Bennett close behind.

  “Aunt Bess! I thought I heard your voice.”

  Bess extended her hand. “Come, Margery. It is best we leave, and quickly.” Before they were seen by whoever had informed the churchwarden of Bess’s prior visit. The rain should offer them cover.

  “Do not be cross, Mistress Ellyott,” said Bennett. “I sent a message bidding your niece to come here.”

  “After you had told her, in my presence, that it was unwise for you to meet?”

  “Bennett, do not lie for me,” said Margery. “My aunt knows why I am here.”

  Bess raised a hand to quiet her before she said too much. The servant who had shown her into the house likely stood nearby, her ears pricked.

  “You were wise to suggest my niece not meet with you, Master Langham,” she said. “I wish she had listened.”

  “I believe I have convinced her of the danger.” Bennett gestured for Margery to join Bess. She did not. “I must tell you also that I had naught to do with yester-even’s events, Mistress Ellyott. Neither I nor any in this household.”

  “Does that include the brown-robed man I have seen here?” He had to be aware of the fellow’s presence. At least one of the servants would have to tend to the man’s needs, and Bennett would not be blind to the comings and goings of trays of food or the emptying of chamber pots.

  “No one in this household caused that boy’s death or meant any harm to your brother-in-law or you,” he replied firmly.

  “I’faith, I want to believe you, Master Langham. I do.” For his eyes seemed to speak truth, and she did not care to recall how readily she could be duped.

  Bess beckoned more sternly for Margery to join her. Her niece crossed the hall but refused Bess’s hand.r />
  “Fetch Mistress Margery’s cloak,” she instructed the servant, who had materialized in the screens passage with suspicious haste.

  She returned with the cloak, and Margery shrugged it on.

  “I bid you farewell, Mistress Margery,” said Master Langham. “I leave for Bristol soon and will not see you before I go.”

  Margery’s breath caught upon a sob and she stumbled from the house, running ahead of Bess and across the gravel courtyard. Out into the rain, where the water could mingle with the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  * * *

  Bess’s head thrummed, pain radiating from the wound upon her shoulder, as she hobbled along the boggy road. Her sore ankle—and thick mules—prevented her from running to keep up with Margery. Her niece had sprinted so far ahead that Bess could no longer see her through the sheeting rain. So she set a more sedate pace. Her path would take her past the ruins though.

  She tugged the hood of her cloak farther over her face. The priory was but a sad pile of stones, she told herself, their gray darkened by the rain. The man who had attacked her and killed Rodge was gone. There was naught to fear during the daytime. All was as it should be. Sheep in the fields. Cattle huddled near a large tree. A cart trundling in her direction, its driver hunched beneath an oiled cape.

  Naught to fear … if she had not been staring at the old priory, she would not have noticed the shadow moving among the tumbled walls. Bess clutched the edges of her cloak. Was she seeing things? Or had the person who’d killed Rodge returned?

  Up ahead, the road rose slightly and would offer a better vantage point. She crept forward. The rain had eased, but the improved viewpoint did not enable her to see through walls.

  If she had any sense, she would hurry to town and alert the constable. Her departure, though, would give the concealed man—if he was a man and not just a wisp of fog—the opportunity to once again escape.

  “Ho!” she called out from the safety of the road, hoping to flush him like a startled rabbit.

  “And pray tell what, Bess,” she muttered to herself, “hope you to do if he does run out?”

  Attack him? Arrest him? Prove to herself he was a living being and not a ghost? No answering movement came. Cautiously, she started down the slope, making her way toward the priory. Her mules slipped on the damp grass, and pain shot through her injured ankle. She would keep her distance from the building. She was not so stupid as to step through the massive entryway and have him leap out from hiding.

  “Ho!” she cried again as she rounded the nearest corner of the structure.

  One of the window openings gave a better view of the inside. There seemed to be no place to hide though. Not among the grass growing where tiles, long since scavenged by a local householder, had once covered floors. Or behind the fluted blocks that formerly supported rows of columns.

  This is foolishness, Bess. Dangerous.

  “Is there anyone there?” Nothing moved, except for the drip of water off stone.

  “You are foolish, Bess.”

  Just then, a figure in brown robes darted from behind one of the far walls. He dashed through the gaping entryway and scrambled up the incline of the road.

  “Stop there!” she cried and hobbled after him, her ankle protesting. “Stop!” she repeated, losing sight of him as he disappeared down the opposite side of the elevated highway. He had to be headed for the plague house. Although she could not comprehend how he thought to hide there either.

  Bess climbed to the roadway and down the other side. He was nowhere to be seen, and she hesitated. How had the fellow managed to elude her so readily? He had to be inside the house, for all around were open meadow and harvested fields that offered no sanctuary, except among damp sheep and some miserable cattle.

  The front door of the house was gone, leaving a gaping hole that let onto the main room. Back in London, Bess had witnessed a plague-stricken house being boarded up with its residents inside. By law, they had to remain there to cope with the horrible disease, to survive or die. Most likely to die. Their cries had been horrific and had left her shaken by her powerlessness to help. However, she had no cure for the plague. If she’d dared defy the law and broken the seals that had entombed the family, she could have done no more than ease their pains or give them sleep. At last, one day the cries ceased, freeing her from her helpless guilt. But not freeing her of the memory.

  The cart was not far distant now, and the driver perked his head to stare at Bess in curiosity. Walking nearer to the house, she peered inside. During the fire, the upper floor had fallen. Burned timbers littered the flagstone-covered floor and leaned against the massive stone fireplace that separated this room from the one to her left. A section of the original central wall yet stood. A trestle table had not fared as well.

  The cart had pulled even with the house, and the driver called down from the road, “Oy! What do you there, Mistress?”

  “I may search for a ghost,” Bess replied.

  “What?” he asked, alarm sharpening his voice. He jumped down from his cart.

  Bess ventured inside. She could see easily, for a roof that no longer existed cast no shadows. Rain dripped upon her head as she picked her way between the fallen beams and looked around. A noise to her left, rather like the sound of wood rubbing against stone, drew her attention. But the rooms were empty. The man was not in the house, unless he was as thin as a sliver or as flat as a pile of ashes. There was nothing to see. Nothing at all. It was as if he had vanished into the air.

  Like the specter of a dead man.

  CHAPTER 15

  “I am sorry to disturb you on a Sunday afternoon, Widow Ellyott,” said the woman Joan had shown into the lesser parlor. “With you still recovering from your injuries. A boy killed, and you struck down. What will happen next?”

  Bess tried to identify her. Was she the cordwainer’s wife or mayhap married to the turner? She decided upon the cordwainer. Short in stature, the woman was dressed plainly but cleanly in a gray kirtle and had an attentive gaze. Which repeatedly shifted from Bess’s face to her shoulder as if hoping to spy the wound that throbbed beneath her clothing.

  Margery, who’d joined Bess in the parlor but had said not a word since returning from Langham Hall, rose from where she had been finger-loop braiding by the window. Bess set aside the purse she had been embroidering and stood also. As it was, her needlework had been proceeding slowly, for her mind kept wandering to the man at the ruins and how he had succeeded in disappearing again. The woman’s arrival was no disturbance at all.

  “Those who need my help are never intruding. Not even on a Sunday,” said Bess. “What is it you require?”

  “My husband’s sciatica is most fierce today, and I have heard your salve is the best,” she said. “Better than that from the widow who lives near the market cross. And I’ll not take him to the leech for a bloodletting. The man nearly drained my poor husband dry the last time.”

  Bess turned to her niece. “Margery, you may have to make new. Mustard seeds, honey, bread crumbs, and vinegar. You remember the recipe.”

  Margery inclined her head and headed for the still room.

  “Your girl is very fair. They are such a comfort, are they not?” the woman asked, unaware of the pain the question caused Bess, who no longer had daughters of her own.

  “She is my sister’s child,” Bess replied. “But I give you my thanks for the kind words, and so would Mistress Crofton.”

  “Ah, Mistress Crofton. My sympathies to her in this terrible time.”

  The woman looked about the room, her gaze lingering on the rich reds and blues and greens of the carpet tossed over Robert’s writing desk before moving back to Bess. “My husband tells me the villain who attacked you has not yet been captured. I hear the vagrant is suspected. But not yet been found.”

  She had come to the house seeking more than a salve for the pain in her husband’s hip.

  “You hear correctly,” said Bess.

  “’Tis also said the v
agrant is a wraith,” she whispered. “You did not see your attacker’s face, did you, Widow Ellyott? Does he even have one, I ask?”

  “I did not see my attacker’s face, but he was very much human,” she said. The man at the ruins, though …

  “Oh, what a fright this all is! A devil creeping about. And yester-even, when my boy came running, saying there had been screams heard at the ruins, my first thought was the old ghosts had risen up,” she exclaimed. “I rushed to my chamber window and saw the torches of the men as they ran to help you.”

  This was intriguing. Bess regarded her. “Mistress, from your house can you also see the fields that surround the ruins?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you see anyone fleeing across them?”

  The woman paused to consider. “I think not. No. I am most certain not,” she said. “I saw a man on horseback riding south, but not coming from near the ruins. At least, I do not believe so.”

  Her attacker had vanished. Like a vapor in the heat of the sun. Though it was more likely that Bess’s visitor had simply come to her window too late to see the fellow making his escape.

  “Unless …” The woman across from Bess narrowed her gaze. “Unless the fiend was human and was that man on horseback. I could not see his face to name him, as he was too distant and night was approaching. But such a distinctive cloak. Lined with red. It flickered like tongues of fire as he rode along.”

  “How interesting.” However, she could not recall if she had ever seen anyone with a cloak like that.

  “You are most fortunate to be alive, after Rodge Anwicke was struck down. My poor Davye is most sad. Good friends, they were,” the other woman was saying. “As it is, my girl has heard from the Anwicke girl—”

  “Maud?”

  “The one who does not speak? She could not have heard from her, could she have done? Nay, the other one,” she said. “As I was saying, my girl has heard that Rodge Anwicke was seen by Goody Anwicke herself—not that the woman was aware it was her son—riding about in Master Crofton’s hat and cloak the very afternoon of the day your poor brother-in-law …” Her gaze narrowed further, until her eyes were two thin slits. “Is it true he was murdered? ’Tis what they are saying.”