A Fall of Shadows Page 16

  “I’d best prepare an excuse for what I am about, then, ought I not?”

  They crossed the courtyard, and the constable pushed open the door, its hinge again squeaking. Goodman Jellis was stretched out upon a warped plank of wood set atop trestles. Someone had covered his scrawny frame with a length of canvas. The strong tang of rosemary, tucked beneath the cloth, battled against the stink of death’s encroaching decay.

  “Mistress?” asked Simon, rising from the stool he’d occupied. He doffed his tattered cap. “Sir.”

  “Simon, this is Constable Harwoode.”

  “I know,” said the boy, returning his cap to his head.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Bess.

  “Master Poynard orders me to sit with the body, since someone has to.” Simon eyed the constable, who returned his gaze just as keenly. “To watch for the old man’s bedeviled soul, should it rise from his body to haunt us. The souls of evildoers have no rest, Mistress.”

  And how might Simon stop a bedeviled soul from haunting the Poynards’ household? The poor old man. To be treated in death with such contempt.

  Bess crossed the room to where Goodman Jellis lay. “Simon, guard the door and tell me if anyone comes.”

  “What mean you to do?” he asked, scampering to the door to do as she asked.

  “She means to cause trouble,” said the constable.

  “’Tis best I not tell you, Simon,” she said. “Constable, the light is weak in here. I could use the assistance of your sharp eyes.”

  “Is there a lantern in the shed?” he asked Simon.

  “There is, but it’s not lit,” the boy said. “And I can’t go to the kitchen for a kindled match without getting asked why I need one.”

  “Stay by the door then, lad.” The constable joined Bess. “This is the part I have the least stomach for, Mistress.”

  “If possible, I will only expose the torso and arms and keep his face covered,” she said. “Do not faint on me, though.”

  Before beginning, Bess said a brief prayer for the man. She lifted the edge of the canvas sheet. The old man was sadly easy to shift as needed, his body no more than skin and bones, and very light bones at that. She succeeded at keeping hidden his face, but not at preventing the sweet stink of death from escaping.

  “Shallow breaths, Constable, are best,” she said in response to his recoil. “We look for pricks or scrapes of red.”

  Together, they bent over the body. Goodman Jellis’s skin was wrinkled and spotted with all the marks that an aging man normally bore.

  “Nothing, Mistress. I see nothing,” said the constable.

  “Keep searching,” she said, though she found no remnant of a poke or a scratch, either. “How goes it, Simon?”

  “No one comes yet, Mistress.”

  Good. “Help me turn him over, Constable.”

  Gingerly, they turned the old man onto his front. But their inspection did not reveal the pricking of a thorn on his back, either.

  “There is nothing,” she said. “I was wrong. ’Twas a far-fetched idea that has borne no fruit.”

  “You were wrong about the how, Mistress,” said Constable Harwoode. “But we may still be right to believe his death was no accident. Just as Anna’s was not.”

  Simon, eavesdropping from the doorway, let out a low whistle. “’Tis true one of the Merricks’ dairymaids is dead! Is that why Master Harwoode shows a witch’s poppet around?”

  “One of the Merricks’ dairymaids has indeed died, Simon,” said Bess, sliding Kit Harwoode a glance. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “But we still have no answer as to how Goodman Jellis’s death was achieved, Constable.”

  The constable dragged fingertips through his beard and frowned at the man’s body. “Perhaps Mistress Grocer did see an old crone at the jail. A woman Jellis confused for a witch. Enough of a fright to stop his heart.”

  “As I told you, Mistress Ellyott,” said Simon, his eyes wide. “You see, I was right! The witch did come to visit Old Jellis and killed him!”

  The constable lifted a brow. “Mistress?”

  “I should have mentioned straightaway what the lad told me, Constable. However, the person both the boy and Mistress Grocer saw had to be merely a simple crone walking within the market square. Not a witch. Not Mother Fletcher,” she added with emphasis. “The sighting of this woman may have stopped Goodman Jellis’s heart, though, Constable. For Simon also told me—did you not, Simon?—that Master Poynard had gone to speak to the fellow afterwards but ran off, ashen faced. Such a reaction suggests the goodman was already deceased.”

  “That is what I saw, Mistress,” the lad responded.

  A scowl replaced the constable’s lifted brow. “Have you any other critical news you should have long ago shared with me, Mistress Ellyott?”

  “None that I can think of,” she retorted. She considered the sad, haggard vagrant stretched out before them. “Poor fellow … wait. What is this?”

  The canvas had slid free of the back of his head, and the lantern light showed a dark discoloration upon his scalp where his sparse hair did nothing to hide it.

  “What?” asked the constable.

  “This bruising here. As though he’d been hit by a heavy object.”

  “What? What is it you look at?” asked Simon from the doorway, eager to join them.

  “Please stay on your guard, Simon,” said Bess. “Could anyone have gotten inside the jail to have delivered such a blow, Constable?”

  “No. It’s locked, and I trust those who possess the keys,” the constable replied. “The blow might have been delivered the night of Reade’s. Mayhap to render to render Jellis unconscious while the killer left Reade’s belt and purse with the old man as supposed evidence for us to find. Jellis was weak and unwell when I spoke with him yesterday morning.”

  “But why did the coroner not make note of the bruising?”

  “You must esteem our crowner’s abilities more highly than I do, Mistress, if you ask that question.”

  “Mistress! Constable!” hissed Simon. “Master Jeffrey has come out into the yard!”

  Hastily, she and the constable turned the dead man onto his back and replaced the cloth.

  “Have you settled on our excuse, Mistress Ellyott?” asked the constable.

  “But Master Jeffrey does not head this way,” said Simon. “Master Howlett has walked out after him.”

  The constable went to peer around the door with the lad. Bess finished tidying Goodman Jellis before joining them.

  “What is happening?” she asked, rising onto her toes to see.

  “They are arguing,” Constable Harwoode said, moving to make way for her. “Howlett is likely begging for the money his troupe is owed. They want to leave, but they can’t afford to depart without those funds.”

  The fellow’s face had gone an ugly shade of red. “His urgency seems most odd. For where would they go? There is plague still in London. Here they are fed, housed, and safe. What is the hurry?”

  “I can propose an answer, and it involves two deaths,” said the constable.

  “Would Master Howlett have killed Anna, Constable? He has no cause, for he does not know her.” Bess had not seen him at the Merricks’ farm before the girl had died. Although … “Although Anna did mention encountering the master of the troupe when she’d gone to greet Bartholomew Reade the day he arrived. Master Howlett had seen her with Master Reade. However, at the time of the murder, Anna was abed, ill, and no witness to the crime. Master Howlett need not fear her.”

  “Perhaps Howlett had another motive we have yet to discover, Mistress.”

  “Might the troupe master and Master Jeffrey be fighting over the robe that has gone missing from among the troupe’s goods?” asked Simon.

  Bess stepped back from the doorway. A piece of clothing was gone from among the players’ possessions? “What is this?”

  “A black robe is missing. Trimmed in fox fur, it was,” said the lad. “They use it for their plays. One of th
e players blames us servants for stealing it.”

  “Constable, could it be the garment we seek?” she asked. A garment that might be stained with a stabbed man’s blood.

  “Possibly. However, our time to ponder the vanished robe is ended,” said the constable. “For Howlett has returned to the house and Jeffrey Poynard makes his way to us. Simon, back to your perch.” He grabbed Bess’s hand. “Mistress, come with me.”

  * * *

  “As you see, Mistress, Old Jellis has been well tended to,” said Kit, loudly enough for not only the approaching Jeffrey Poynard to hear, but also for anyone walking past on the lane beyond the garden wall.

  Bess Ellyott jerked her hand from his grasp. “You need not drag me about like a captured mouse in a cat’s mouth, Constable.”

  She gave Poynard a fleeting look. She understood what Kit was about. A bit of playacting on their parts. Perhaps they should join Howlett’s troupe.

  “I do comprehend I need not have thought otherwise,” she added as loudly as he’d spoken. “Forgive my error, good sir. I care too greatly for a vagrant accused of a horrible crime.”

  Overdoing it, Mistress Ellyott?

  Poynard blocked their path and stared at them down the length of his nose. “Mistress Ellyott. Constable. My servant said you were in our outbuilding.”

  “A foolish whim on my part, Master Poynard,” said Mistress Ellyott. “Forgive my impudence for trespassing on you. However, I am pleased that my trespass permitted me to see that Simon is fully recovered from his fever. And so, I must return home.”

  “I will speak with you later, Mistress Ellyott,” said Kit.

  Poynard shifted to prevent her hasty escape. “You went to see Jellis’s body.”

  From the corner of his eye, Kit noticed the twitch of her fingers longing to ball into a fist.

  “As I said, Master Poynard, a foolish whim,” she replied. “I feared his body might be mistreated, but you and your household have proved me wrong.”

  The fellow turned his attention to Kit. “You were required to accompany Mistress Ellyott, Constable?”

  “I saw her heading here. I thought she might prove troublesome.”

  She made a faint noise of protest, but his comment seemed to ease Poynard’s suspicions.

  “You were right to follow her, Constable.” He inclined his head and stepped aside. “Good day to you, Mistress.”

  She hurried past him. At the gate, she paused to look back at Kit before slipping out onto the road.

  Poynard waited for the click of the gate shutting behind her to speak. “There has been another death.”

  How convenient of him to mention it. “You were seen at the Merricks’ yesterday, Master Poynard.”

  His face did not move. Nothing on him moved except the plume tucked into his velvet cap, tugged by the wind whipping across the courtyard. Would such a fop stab a fellow and risk spattering blood on his silvery doublet or fine netherstocks? Trod through a cow-byre to beat a girl and force her under the animal’s hooves? Kit, however, had known other wealthy men who’d sit at table and delicately pick at their food to not soil their hands but would not hesitate to draw gore with a well-placed punch.

  “I went to speak with David Merrick,” Poynard replied. “Not to attack a dairymaid. The girl was trampled by a rogue cow, or so I have been told by one of our servants.”

  “What was your business with Master Merrick?” asked Kit.

  “He spreads rumors that I murdered Bartholomew Reade. I’ll not tolerate such lies.”

  Which agreed with Jennet’s tale.

  “I have heard you threatened his health,” said Kit.

  A muscle along Poynard’s jaw twitched. “Threats are sometimes required for Master Merrick to listen, Constable. I make no serious plans to harm him,” said Poynard. “Now if you will forgive me, I must arrange to make payment to Master Howlett. He and his men will be leaving soon. Thankfully.”

  Damn. “When do they make to depart?’

  “Tomorrow morning. At dawn, if the weather allows.”

  Which meant Kit had precious little time to find a killer before a suspect escaped his grasp.

  * * *

  “Mistress Crofton arose right after you departed, Mistress,” said Joan, meeting Bess at the door. “She has gone to her house.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “In an ill humor.” She collected Bess’s hat and the kerchief she’d tied about her shoulders for warmth. “Your good sister snapped at Humphrey.”

  “That is not an ill humor, Joan. That is acting with sense,” quipped Bess. “I return, though, with news we found no sign that Goodman Jellis had been pricked by a thorn. Although I did find a dark red discoloration upon his scalp as though he’d been hit.”

  “’Twas the blow that killed him?” asked Joan.

  “No, we … that is, the constable suspects it was delivered the night of Master Reade’s murder,” she said. “As for how he died, we must conclude that Goodman Jellis’s heart simply failed him. Witnesses saw an old woman near the jail. The goodman may have mistaken her for a witch and perished of fright.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Indeed.” She nodded at Joan to dismiss her and made to enter the hall.

  “Mistress Ellyn has at last left her chamber, Mistress,” said Joan, halting Bess. “She secrets herself away in your still room. I thought you would wish to know.”

  “Have you told her about Anna?”

  Joan nodded. “I thought it best she hear it from me, rather than Humphrey. He would not be kind.”

  No, he’d not. “My thanks, Joan.”

  Inside the still room, Ellyn Merrick had taken down one of Bess’s clay pots and removed its lid to examine its contents. She was dressed in a worn kirtle that Joan had placed in Ellyn’s borrowed chamber. It fit her better than it had ever fit Bess, who’d brought the gown with her from London.

  “That is a mixture of marjoram, cloves, and rose leaves, Mistress Ellyn,” said Bess.

  The young woman spun about, dropping the pot onto the stone flooring. It shattered into pieces, scattering the herb mixture everywhere.

  “I did not hear you,” she said, sinking to her knees to gather the broken pieces of the clay pot. “Forgive me my clumsiness, Mistress Ellyott. I have destroyed your work.”

  “I should not have startled you.” Bess retrieved a broom she kept in the corner. “And I often drop pots and bowls. That mix of herbs is not as valuable as the waters I prepare or the containers of expensive spices my brother buys for me on his travels.”

  Ellyn straightened, and Bess swept the shards and herbs into a pile.

  “What did you mean to do with the contents of that pot?” Ellyn asked.

  Bess took her apron from its hook. “Hold this flat against the floor if you will,” she said to Ellyn, who did as Bess asked. She swept the debris onto the apron. “They were to be mixed with civet and musk to fill a taffeta bag.”

  “For the pleasantness of its aroma.”

  “To make a sweet bag. Yes.” Bess set aside her broom and folded the apron over the broken pieces. Standing, she set it atop her worktable to be emptied later. “You look well this morning.”

  Ellyn glanced down at herself as if to assess the truth of Bess’s words. “My body is healed.”

  “But not your heart?”

  The other woman’s eyes met Bess’s. “That old red cow would not ever have trod upon Anna without cause, Mistress. It was an unruly beast, ’tis true, but she was skilled with the creature. Unlike Thomasin, who makes the animal anxious.”

  “I meant to tell you when I returned last night what happened to Anna, but you were asleep,” said Bess. “It seemed another day’s wait to tell you the sad news would not be amiss.”

  “My thanks.”

  “I do not solely blame the red cow for Anna’s death, however,” Bess continued. “There were fresh marks upon her body. On her forearm, as though she had raised it to fend off the blow of a rod or thick switch.”


  Ellyn did not look surprised. “Fresh ones?”

  “She had been struck before?”

  Ellyn’s gaze shifted to rest on the bundle holding the broken pot and herbs. Or did it rest on the nearby broom that Bess had leaned against the work bench?

  “My mother can be strict with the servants,” Ellyn said at last, her eyes dark with bitterness.

  “And strikes them,” said Bess.

  “She’d not be punished, would she?”

  Not even if Mistress Merrick had beaten Anna to death would she be punished, for the law required proof a master or mistress had exceeded their right to correct a wayward servant.

  “Jeffrey Poynard came to your house yesterday, not so many hours before Anna Webb died,” said Bess. “He was in search of your brother and was most furious.”

  The gaze of the woman standing opposite her revealed no more emotions than those of a woman staring out from a painting. The flat eyes brushed onto canvas in oils. Such secrets she held close.

  “They mislike each other,” she said with a voice as flat as her eyes.

  “I must also tell you that Master Poynard says he yet intends to wed you, Ellyn,” said Bess quietly.

  Ellyn lifted her chin. “He may intend that all he wants, Mistress, but I will not take as husband the man who forced himself upon me. Not when it was Bartholomew I loved.” Her eyes were no longer flat and lifeless. They were pain-filled. “The only man I shall ever love.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Mist floated up from the river, covering the fading greenery of the churchyard like a wealthy woman’s sheer veil drawn over her face to conceal its contours. Fittingly somber, thought Bess as she awaited the burial of an aged vagrant accused of murder.

  Only those who need be in attendance had assembled. The church minister. The sextant and another fellow hired to carry the bier and casket borrowed from the church. A young woman in a plain kirtle and coarse canvas apron, who looked anxiously at the minister, then to the hole that had been cut into the ground, then back again, her body taut with the need to be gone. Goodman Jellis’s daughter, Bess presumed. And off to one side stood Jeffrey Poynard, who schooled his features to appear sorrowful rather than impatient. He did not now nor had he been seen earlier that day to carry the demeanor of a guilty man. Perhaps she might be wrong about his blame.