Searcher of the Dead Read online

  “Where did you hear this news about Rodge?”

  “I said. From my daughter, who heard it from the Anwicke girl,” she answered. “The constable paid the Anwickes a visit this morn, and ’twas then they discovered the cruel trick Rodge had played. That boy. He has met the end, ’tis sad to say, that he deserved. I’ve warned Davye about keeping with that lad. Wait, where are you off to?” she shouted after Bess, who had bolted from the room.

  * * *

  “Am I welcome?” Gibb strolled into Kit’s hall, his damp shoes leaving a trail of footprints across the oak floor. He dropped onto the settle by the cold hearth. “When you play upon your gittern, I never know.”

  Gibb had walked into the house without announcement, startling Kit, who’d been strumming a tuneless song, rapt in speculation.

  “You are welcome,” said Kit, setting down the instrument. “What have you learned?”

  “That the plowman spoke true when he said near everyone in town hired Rodge Anwicke. Even Crofton. To help shear sheep, according to his servant.” Gibb stripped off his gloves and rubbed his hands together to warm them. The damp and cold had seeped inside with the morning’s rain, lingering long after it had stopped. “But to a man, all their reasons sounded honest and innocent.”

  “You went to speak with Wat after services.”

  “Aye, and he continues to profess he has never heard of Rodge Anwicke and was rather displeased I asked, after you had done so the other day.” Gibb frowned. “He will complain to my father.”

  He would, to the effect that Gibb would spend more time helping with his father’s accounts and less helping Kit.

  “Wat’s gardener was also at services this morning, and I asked him about Rodge.” Gibb spied a fleck of mud on his plum-colored paned trunk hose and brushed it off. “The fellow did hire the boy, but said it was months ago. Further, he recalled what he’d paid the boy—a groat. Not a sixpence. All the others paid similarly, a few pence, no more. Crofton’s servant, however, did not know how much Crofton had paid the boy.”

  Kit paced the room. “The trinkets, the coin may mean nothing at all. It is possible we follow a trail that leads nowhere.”

  “We must presume the vagrant is the killer,” said Gibb.

  “But where does he hide, and how did he escape without detection?” If the miller had not been so positive that he had seen this vagrant, Kit would believe they were dealing with an apparition. The townspeople were beginning to claim that he was.

  “The beast is clever,” said Gibb.

  And I am not.

  Kit halted by the hall’s window just as Stamford hurried across the square, dodging puddles. Headed for a round of archery, a clutch of boys, long bows in hand and quivers of arrows upon their backs, scattered out of the draper’s way. Marcye from the Cross Keys, making her way to the tavern, paused to greet Stamford, only to be rebuffed.

  “I wish I’d seen Stamford at the ruins. I care not for the fellow.”

  “You would have noticed Stamford if he had been at the priory ruins yester-even. As tall as he is,” said Gibb.

  “I suppose I would have.” The truth of which did not improve Kit’s mood.

  Stamford arrived at the door to his business. At the adjacent shop, the cordwainer’s son loitered in the doorway and smirked after him.

  “If we but had other eyes to see …” said Gibb.

  “We may.” Kit tracked the tavern keeper’s daughter as she wended her way to the Cross Keys. “Fetch Marcye Johnes here. The girl sees everything.”

  “Up here?” Gibb sounded aghast. “What will her father say about a visit to your rooms?”

  “He might claim I need marry her. Bring her up nonetheless.”

  Gibb rushed off. He appeared upon the square beneath Kit’s window and hailed the girl. Marcye did not hesitate to accompany him. Indeed, she appeared rather keen.

  The girl fairly danced into Kit’s hall. She dropped a curtsy as she gazed about her. Besides his gittern, the hall was bare of any decoration. A plain, useful room. In need of a cleaning. Mayhap she thought it could use womanly tending.

  “Constable Harwoode,” she said breathlessly. “How might I help you? Whatever you ask.”

  She shot a glance at Gibb, a tiny wrinkle upon her forehead, perhaps perplexed that he lounged against the doorway and had not left them.

  “I have a question, Mistress Johnes,” said Kit.

  “Aye?”

  “About Arthur Stamford.”

  Disappointment formed a different wrinkle on her forehead. “Oh.”

  “From the Cross Keys, you can see the door to his shop and residence,” he said. “Have you spotted Rodge Anwicke there in recent weeks?”

  She chewed her lower lip as she thought, the sight of the tips of her teeth drawing attention to her shapely mouth. “I have seen Rodge at the cordwainer’s next door. He is Davye’s mate. But at the Stamfords’? Nay. Not of late.”

  “Last night, did you see Master Stamford arrive back from a journey?”

  “Ask you because you think I spy upon everyone?” She pouted. “I am not a gossip.”

  Gibb smirked behind his hand.

  “No, you are merely very observant, Mistress Johnes,” said Kit. “And a help to me, if you can answer.”

  The pout became a coy smile. “I did see him,” she said. “He had rented a horse from the inn and clattered across the square in a huff. Not long before the sun had set. He jumped down and rushed inside. After a bit, his oldest came out to return the horse.”

  “Did he leave again?”

  She shook her head. “My father complained he did not come to help with the hue and cry, defying the law. My father was most ireful about that, when he had gone and shut the tavern so we and the customers could assist. As is required. But not for Master Stamford, apparently. I hope he is fined severely.”

  “I will see to it. My thanks, Mistress Johnes.”

  She slunk off behind Gibb. Kit dropped onto the settle. Fulke Crofton and Rodge Anwicke had died, and he was no nearer to finding their murderer.

  Footsteps sounded outside the hall doorway.

  “Gibb, I agree that the vagrant must be responsible.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  The irate voice did not belong to his cousin.

  Kit jumped up to face the door. “Mistress Ellyott.” He inclined his head. “I went to your house earlier to ask after your health, but your servant told me you were not at home. I see, though, you are recovering.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” she repeated. Gibb had accompanied her, and he leaned against the wall near the door, an amused look on his face.

  “Forgive me, Mistress, if I do not follow,” said Kit.

  “About Rodge Anwicke’s ruse that he was Fulke, riding about with my brother-in-law’s hat. And upon his horse as well.”

  One day he would learn that gossip traveled swifter than a spark through dry straw. “According to the lad’s sister, all that is certain is that Rodge had the hat before midday—”

  “Is that all that is certain, Constable? For the Anwickes appear to think otherwise.”

  Kit felt positive he was blushing. Bloody … “I may have suggested more to Goodwife Anwicke when Gibb and I visited.”

  “I dare say you did.” She let out a sharp breath. “You could have informed me as soon as you learned of it. Instead, I had to hear this news from the cordwainer’s wife, whose children are friends with the Anwicke children and clearly know more than I do.”

  “You were not at home, Mistress, when I came by earlier,” he reminded her.

  “So you did mention,” she said, pausing to regain her composure. “But this news means that any who have no account for where they were Tuesday morning must now be considered suspects. Such as your cousin. He walked his grounds earlier than usual, according to Lady Howe when I tended her yesterday.”

  “As I have told you, Wat has sworn he did not harm your brother-in-law.” To be required to defend Wat was gallin
g.

  “What of last night?” she asked. “Did he meet you at the mill, as he claimed to me were his plans? Or did he lie in wait at the ruins?”

  “He had not arrived at the mill by the time Gibb and I left,” he admitted. “However, that does not mean he did not go there, Mistress.”

  “Sir Walter should be considered guilty.”

  Kit glanced at Gibb, whose face was drawn.

  “The person most likely responsible is the vagrant, Mistress Ellyott,” said Kit. “You should accept that this is the reality.”

  “The vagrant. Always the vagrant,” she responded. “As far as I can tell, he is an apparition that slinks among the ruins south of town, Constable Harwoode.”

  Kit lifted an eyebrow. “You sound as though you have seen him there.”

  She hesitated. “I admit that I thought I did earlier today, but I was mistaken. ’Twas but a shadow.”

  “I did search them, Kit,” Gibb reminded him.

  “I’ve not forgotten,” said Kit.

  “The cordwainer’s wife had more of interest to tell, Constable,” said Mistress Ellyott. “She can see the ruins from the upper windows of her house. She saw no one flee across the fields, but she did observe some fellow on horseback upon the highway. He wore a red-lined cloak. I do not recall a horse near the ruins last night, but think you it is possible this man was the assailant?”

  “Very possible.”

  “Does Sir Walter own a red-lined cloak?” she asked.

  “I have not seen him with one.” But what of Stamford? Marcye had seen him ride up to his shop in haste. But the time of his arrival was wrong, too early to have killed Rodge Anwicke and then ridden home.

  “We will find the fellow, Mistress,” said Gibb, solicitous as ever. “Do not fear for your safety.”

  She smiled graciously at Gibb, then looked straight at Kit. “Promise me, Constable, that all possible suspects will be pursued, not merely the vagrant.”

  “I will not protect my cousin, if he is guilty,” said Kit. “The killer is frightened, which is why Rodge Anwicke had to die. Soon, he will stumble and make an error that reveals his identity.”

  “But who else will have to die before he makes that error?”

  * * *

  “They have come to interrogate the Langhams.” Margery met Bess at the door, Quail jumping and barking around her legs, tangling in her skirts. “Mother has brought the news.”

  “What is this?” Bess asked Joan, standing behind Margery in the entry passage.

  “Master Topcliffe has arrived, Mistress,” she answered, kneeing aside the dog. “I saw him myself, while you were at the constable’s. Did you not? The town waites, playing upon their hautbois and shawms, have been sent to greet him as though his arrival is to be cheered.”

  “I did not see him or hear the waites.” Bess limped into the hall, Margery hurrying behind her. Dorothie sat upon Robert’s chair, her back as straight as an iron post. “Dorothie, how are you this day?”

  “I have lost a husband and may lose all I possess. How think you I might be?” she answered tartly. “Nonetheless, I roused myself from my own distress to see how you fared after last evening’s misfortune. I was on my way here when I learned of Master Topcliffe’s arrival.”

  “This is dreadful,” said Margery.

  “It would seem the queen’s men have come at last for the Langhams,” said Dorothie, looking at Bess, though her words were for her daughter. “As I have long suspected they would.”

  “Bennett will not let his mother be taken to London to die,” said Margery, her voice taut. “He will insist on going in her place.”

  “We know not precisely why Master Topcliffe has come or what is intended for the Langhams,” said Bess. She lowered herself onto the settle, her body one great ache from ankle to shoulder. “It profits us naught to speculate.”

  Margery dropped onto the settle beside her. “Is it true what they say about Richard Topcliffe?” she asked. “That he is evil and delights in using the cruelest torture?”

  “Thankfully, I have not met him, so I do not know,” said Bess.

  “He is a foul-looking fellow.” Joan tucked the settle’s pillows and bolsters against Bess. “He rode into town on the south road, Mistress Ellyott, and the way he stared at everyone from atop his horse … as though he searched for traitors among those gathered.”

  “Hush!” commanded Dorothie. “Do not dare speak of one of the queen’s men in such a fashion. You shall see us all in trouble with such words.”

  “Dorothie, ’tis only us to overhear her,” Bess chided. “Joan, fetch us some wine. We have need of it.”

  “Mayhap we should flee,” said Margery.

  “Why might we flee? We are not guilty of any crime. I will not hear such nonsense from you, Margery,” said Dorothie. “I do wish Robert would return from London. He would sort this out.”

  “Master Topcliffe’s visit does not involve us, so Robert would have nothing to sort out,” Bess said, holding on to whatever calm she could muster, which was sparse indeed. “Master Enderby told me he was pleased we all attended services this morning and has no need to mention us to Master Topcliffe. As your mother said, Margery, we have no reason to flee.”

  Margery chewed her lip. “He has come because of the vagrant, has he not?”

  “That Jesuit creature,” said Dorothie. “You can be sure he is to blame for much. He is the one who attacked your aunt and killed that boy. And probably your stepfather, too!”

  Now her sister suspected the vagrant was the culprit? What of Master Stamford or Sir Walter? “Enough, Dorothie,” Bess chided.

  Margery had gone ashen. “No one knows for certain that this vagrant is a Jesuit. It is only a rumor. He could simply be a wandering Abraham-man. Or a gypsy.”

  “He is a Jesuit,” insisted her mother. “And the Langhams shelter him.”

  “That is not true!” Margery retorted. “They do not! No matter what Aunt Bess thinks!”

  “What is this, Elizabeth?”

  “Prithee, peace, both of you,” said Bess sternly. Subdued, her sister and niece quieted. “We must not fight among ourselves, especially at such a trying time.”

  Dorothie was not finished though. “I know your heart is tender toward Bennett, Margery, but do not try to defend the Langhams. You are full aware of their past.”

  “But she could be right about the vagrant, Dorothie,” said Bess. “We must allow that Margery could be right and all the rumors wrong.”

  “Fie. You do not honestly believe that, Elizabeth.”

  No, she did not.

  And they would learn the Langhams’ culpability soon enough. For Topcliffe, if he had come for the Langhams, would fall upon them like a ravenous dog and tear the truth from them.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Answer me, Wat,” said Kit, pacing after his cousin, who strode from his stables toward his house. “I would have the truth about Fulke Crofton.”

  “You yet think to tie me to Crofton’s death?” Wat tugged off his heavy leather riding gloves as they crossed the courtyard behind Highcombe Manor’s main building, its stone walls and oriel windows rising before them. The short cloak that snapped in the wind behind him was lined not in red but in silk the color of slate. “Take care, Kit. You are beholden to me. You and Gibb, who dared to question me in front of Cecily about that cottager’s son. My wife had felt well enough to attend services but has taken to her bed again, thanks to him.”

  “I do not wish to harm Lady Howe,” said Kit.

  “I pray not,” answered his cousin. “And think not to ask any further questions about Crofton, coz. You should be hunting down the vagrant, rather than annoying me.”

  “We do hunt the fellow.” After Mistress Ellyott’s comment about seeing a “shadow” among the ruins, Kit had searched them on his way to Highcombe. And had come up empty-handed, as Gibb had before.

  “Not well enough,” said Wat, his stride lengthening. “If you have time to annoy me at my home.”r />
  Kit grabbed Wat’s arm and yanked him to a halt, his cousin’s boots crunching in the gravel as he spun about. “You will speak to me about this matter.”

  Wat gazed down at Kit’s hand. “And you will release me.”

  Kit slowly uncurled his fingers, and Wat jerked his arm away.

  “You told Mistress Ellyott you were bound for the mill last night, to help find the vagrant, yet you did not arrive before I left. Nor did I see you along the way.” Kit stepped up to Wat, close enough to feel his cousin’s hot breath upon his face. “And the day Fulke Crofton died, you had gone for a stroll earlier than was usual for you. Close in time, perhaps, to when the fellow met his end.”

  “This is your reasoning for how I am guilty?”

  “Tell me where you strolled, Wat,” said Kit. “Where were you?”

  “I walk. ’Tis no sin.”

  “With no one to witness where you go.”

  An angry flush reddened his cousin’s throat above the edge of his ruff. “Fie on you, Kit Harwoode.”

  “If these walks are so innocent, then you’ll not mind admitting where your feet take you.”

  “To the river,” he spat.

  The river.

  The response so startled Kit that it had to be an honest answer. He could name the precise spot. The last known place a young hothead had been seen in the company of an equally young and hotheaded Wat Howe.

  “Does visiting the river ease your guilt?” asked Kit. “Or do you go there to serve penance for your crime?”

  “You and Gibb. Two of a pair.” Wat’s tone was derisive. “You both think you know what happened that day.”

  Cocksure. Yet guarded. Kit could see the uncertainty in his cousin’s eyes. The tables have turned, coz. “I do know what happened.”

  “The fellow was never found,” answered his cousin, as coolly as he had ever done. “He disappeared. Left the county.”

  “So you have always said.” Kit clasped his dagger, slung from his belt. “And I presume you want me to believe you walked to the river rather than join the search for the vagrant last night. An evening stroll.”