Searcher of the Dead Page 18

  “I did go to the mill, but my help was not required,” he answered. “I left immediately. The uproar made me concerned for Cecily, so I returned to Highcombe and sent my servants to assist.” He peered at Kit. “Do you believe me?”

  “Do you care if I believe you?” For he never much had before.

  Wat crushed his gloves in his fist. “Not really.”

  He marched off. Through a window, a servant spotted his approach. He rushed to fling open the rear door then slam it shut behind his master.

  * * *

  Bess limped across her bedchamber, removed the candlestick sitting upon her stool, and dropped onto the seat. At the foot of her bedstead, Quail opened an eye to look at her.

  “Ah, Quail, another sleepless night for me.”

  The dog readjusted his head and closed his eye.

  The pain in her shoulder throbbed in time with the pulsing ache in her ankle, sore from too much walking that day. From the adjacent chamber came the sound of Margery’s weeping. Outside, the watchmen patrolled the streets with greater frequency than before. Somewhere in the village, the burgesses feasted and flattered Richard Topcliffe in their eagerness to prove their devotion to the queen. While Master Topcliffe likely schemed his worst for the morrow.

  More importantly, a stranger in brown robes flitted among stones and up staircases. And Bess had not told the full truth to the constable of her encounter with the fellow. Out of a desire—were she honest with herself—to shield the Langhams and, by extension, Margery. In violation of the law.

  Was he a killer, though?

  “Jesu,” she breathed aloud and grabbed the candle she had put upon the floor. Her head was beginning to ache along with everything else. A cloth soaked in her preparation of rue-steeped vinegar would help the pains.

  “Stay, Quail,” she ordered the dog and went downstairs, the candle lighting her way.

  As she turned to enter her still room, she heard a faint noise in the kitchen. The dull glow of the hearth fire cast Joan, hunched upon a stool, in its light.

  She heard Bess’s approach and looked up from what she had been doing. “Can you not sleep, Mistress?” she asked, rising.

  “Nay. Between Master Topcliffe’s coming and my many pains, I cannot even recline upon my pillow.” She nodded at the hornbook dangling from her servant’s hand. An old piece of parchment, printed with the alphabet and the Lord’s Prayer, was tacked to its oak surface and covered with a thin protective sheet of horn. “What do you there?”

  “’Tis a means to calm myself. I practice my letters, but I have no paper upon which to write them.” She held up the book and traced her fingers atop the letters. “I brought it with me from London. It may be a silly use of my time, but I want to learn to read and write. Mayhap I would be of more use to someone, with my …”

  She need not motion to the scar upon her face for Bess to understand.

  “Learning to read and write is not a silly use of your time, Joan,” she said. “Martin had begun to teach you, had he not?”

  “Aye, and Mistress Margery helps me now, when she is here and has time to do so.” Joan’s eyes searched Bess’s face. “You must yet miss him greatly.”

  “Most deeply, Joan,” she answered quietly. “And at a time like this, when I could use his wise counsel and the strength of his arm and of his heart … I feel his loss keenly.”

  “We will survive these dreadful events, Mistress. If we survived what happened in London, we can survive again.”

  With a smile, Bess clasped the hand her servant proffered and felt the ache in her head slip away. The love of a friend a better cure than vinegar and rue.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Kit made his way across the market square. The Stamford girl peered through the open window of their shop as he neared the row of buildings that housed both the draper’s and the shop belonging to Davye’s father, the town’s cordwainer.

  The man looked up from where he sat at a bench, stitching the sole of a shoe onto a delicately pinked upper. “Master Constable, good morrow to you.”

  Kit was met by the warm smell of leather, pieces of which hung upon the walls and were stacked on trestle boards. Wooden forms, modeled from customers’ feet, sat in a neat row upon a shelf. The cordwainer’s tools—blades and awls, pieces of chalk to mark a pattern, thick needles sticking up from a pincushion—were spread across his bench. Pairs of completed shoes waited near the window.

  The fellow himself, a canvas apron tied over his shirtsleeves and breeches, rubbed his back as he straightened from his bent position and stood. Wrinkles crisscrossed his forehead, left there from squinting at his work. He glanced down at Kit’s feet. “Need you new shoes?”

  “I need to speak to your son, Davye.”

  Frowning, the man set his needle and unfinished shoe upon the bench. “What has he done now?”

  “I do not know that he has done anything wrong, but he may have information I require.”

  Rather than bring him, the man turned and bellowed the boy’s name. From the room behind the shop came the sound of running feet.

  Davye burst into the shop. “Aye?” he asked, sneaking a wary glance at Kit.

  “Speak to the constable, boy,” his father said, shoving his son, who tripped over a pair of shoes on the floor.

  “I’ve done nothing!” protested the boy, as wiry and sharp-eyed as Rodge Anwicke had been.

  “Might we speak in private?” Kit asked the cordwainer.

  Sighing, the fellow wagged a finger at Davye and disappeared into the rooms behind the shop.

  “I have heard that you and Rodge Anwicke were mates,” said Kit.

  “Aye, we were,” he said tentatively. “He is dead now.”

  “Sadly so.” From where he’d hung it upon his belt, Kit untied Rodge Anwicke’s pouch. He cleared a spot on the cordwainer’s workbench and emptied the contents onto its surface. The silver sixpence glittered dully. “What can you tell me about these items? Have you ever seen them before?”

  Davye’s gaze danced from the articles strewn across the bench to Kit’s face and then off into other parts of the shop. When it lingered on the street at Kit’s back, he suspected they had drawn unwanted attention. Kit turned to face the window, and Stamford’s daughter and another girl ducked out of view.

  The boy’s gaze returned to the bench, where it focused upon the silk ribbon as though, by sheer force of his gaze, he could will it out of existence. “Uh …”

  “Let me make a suggestion. You have seen them in Rodge Anwicke’s possession.”

  The boy’s gaze flickered.

  “Come now, Davye. Your friend is no longer with us to be angry if you tell me,” said Kit. He should have brought Gibb, who could get a stone to speak. “And you shall not be in trouble for speaking the truth. This coin, for instance …” Kit tapped it. “Who gave it to him?”

  “Never seen him with that.”

  “But mayhap you have seen the ribbon before?”

  Davye eyed him. “I may have done.”

  “I would say you have, Davye,” said Kit. “Tell me how he got it.”

  Davye shrugged. “Cannot say. And Rodge cannot either.”

  “Do you wish me to question you about a missing pig, boy?” The lad blanched. “I thought not. So, did your good friend steal the ribbon, or was it given to him?”

  Davye chewed on his lower lip as he pondered his options. “I will not be in trouble?”

  “No.” Although, thought Kit, that did depend upon what the lad told him.

  “Rodge got it for doing someone a favor,” he said in a rush.

  “Someone. A man or a woman? One of the Stamfords, mayhap?”

  “He never said a name I remember. Just ‘someone.’”

  “When did he do this favor?” asked Kit. “And what was it Rodge did?”

  “May have been a week past. Or two weeks,” said Davye. “Rodge wanted fine things like what the rich folk have. Said he was going to give the ribbon to his mother.�
� The boy frowned. “Never did, though, did he? And cannot now.”

  What had happened a week to two ago? A pig had been stolen. A vagrant had arrived. Bennett Langham had come to town. “And the favor … what was it?”

  “Rodge was to just watch. That was all, watch,” said Davye, releasing what he knew piece by piece, as slowly as the drips from a leaky bucket.

  Kit drew in a lengthy breath. He had no patience for this sort of work, which Wat had also known when he’d made the recommendation that Kit become constable. “Watch what or who, Davye?”

  Davye blinked. “Them at Langham Hall. Them papists.”

  * * *

  “I mislike this, Mistress,” said Joan, handing Bess her hat. “You haring off to the mill to ask questions.”

  “I cannot idly sit and wonder if the Langhams will be accused of harboring a Jesuit,” she said. “I would learn from the one person who has seen the fellow if he is a priest at all.”

  She had other questions as well, which he might have answers for.

  “You are still injured,” said Joan, frowning.

  She smiled. “Do not fret, Joan.”

  The mill stood upon a bend in the river, where a race had been carved into the land to carry water to the wheel, then back out to the river again. Two stories high and built of stone, it was one of the most solid structures in the village besides the church. Inside revolved the heavy grinding stones, turning grain to flour. As Bess drew near, she could see through the windows a fine flume of dust clouding the lower level. Though it was a busy time of year for the miller, just after the harvest, it appeared she was in luck—no customers crowded the mill, and he was alone with his apprentice.

  Bess stepped through the ground-floor entrance. “Master Miller,” she called out. The sound of the millstones drowned out her voice, so she waved and called again.

  His apprentice, a strong-shouldered lad, noticed her. He set down the bag from which he’d been pouring grain into the hopper above the millstones and signaled to his master.

  With a frown, the miller looked over at the doorway where Bess stood. He craned his neck to see beyond her, perchance wondering if she had brought a wagon loaded with grain, and frowned more severely when he determined she had not. She was merely a pest interrupting his work.

  Bowlegged, his clothing whitened by a thin coating of dust, he strode over. “What want you, Mistress?” He smelled of raw flour and sweat. He pointed a thumb at the interlocking gears behind him. “I’ve grinding to oversee.”

  “I require but a moment of your time.”

  He peered at her. “You are that healer woman who lives with Master Marshall. The one who was attacked at the ruins after that Anwicke boy was killed.”

  His comment had made her questioning a great deal easier. “I am.” Bess shook her head mournfully. “After what happened to that lad, I suppose I am fortunate to be alive.”

  “That you are.”

  “And what a frustration that the fellow responsible has not been caught,” said Bess. “I expect Sir Walter is most concerned about the threat this man poses. He even joined the search that night, did he not?” Her first question.

  “Sir Walter did not come here to help look for a vagrant,” said the miller. “He sent his servants.”

  Sir Walter had lied, then, to Bess and to Lady Howe as to where he had intended to go.

  “Now if I may return to my work, Mistress.”

  Bess stayed him with a hand. “Prithee, good sir, my servant is most fearful of this strange fellow,” she said, creating a story in hopes he would be more willing to speak. “It is said he is a Jesuit, though I do not understand why any would think a Jesuit would come here. We do not favor them in Wiltshire.”

  “Do not some of us?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Your brother-in-law knew better.”

  And may have died because of that knowledge. “What do you know about the vagrant? What have you seen of him?” Her second question.

  “I’ve told the constable all I know.”

  “Can you not tell me, though?” she asked pleadingly. “He may be the one who attacked me, and I need to be able to identify him should I encounter him again.”

  “As you will.” The miller swept his hands before him, indicating she should go out into the yard. The apprentice slid them a curious glance as they left.

  He walked over toward the wheel, which creaked and groaned as it turned in the flow of the race, the paddles gently striking the water. “’Twas when I saw the fellow sitting near the sluice that I realized what he was. At first, I thought it might have been that Rodge Anwicke. Always loitering about, as he does, and causing trouble rather than minding what that father of his needs done.”

  “Was this the first time you saw the vagrant?”

  “No. Saw him nine or ten days ago. At the time, I thought him a traveler passing through. Stopping to fish at the river.”

  Nine or ten days ago. Around the time Fulke confronted Bennett about harboring a Jesuit. “And the next time was the day I was attacked.”

  “Aye. I found him just outside the mill. I was done for the day and had gone home. But I’d come back to fetch a torn apron I’d left here, for my wife to mend. ’Twas then I saw him,” he said. “I’ve heard about them Jesuits slipping into the country. As sure as I am standing here, he be one of them. And now Master Topcliffe has come, which means I am right to think so.”

  “How can you be so certain he is a priest?”

  “The fellow had beads in his hand. Papist prayer beads. Just sad it is that he saw me and ran off. In truth, I would have throttled his skinny neck if I had been able to lay hands upon him.”

  “Skinny? I thought them all plump.”

  The miller gave a laugh, which turned into a rattling cough. She had a passing thought that she should provide him a drink of honey water stewed with raisins to help his throat.

  “Not this one,” he said, once his cough subsided. “Thin under his brown clothes, and with sharp bones on his clean-shaven face.”

  A man precisely like the one she had seen.

  Oh, Margery, the fellow is not a simple Abraham-man.

  “He did not wear a red-lined cloak?” she asked, her third question. “A villager told me they had seen a fellow so attired fleeing after Rodge was killed.”

  “Plain brown clothes. That is all, Mistress.”

  “Oh. I do wonder who it was with that cloak …”

  “Never seen one,” he said. “Those Langhams will pay for their treason though. Helping hide a Jesuit. Master Topcliffe will see to it,” he said, lumbering off before Bess could ask any more questions.

  * * *

  “What did you learn?” Margery asked, looking up from the finger-loop braiding she had been working on near the hall window. “Joan told me you went to speak to the miller about the vagrant.”

  “I am glad you have kept yourself occupied this morning,” said Bess, coming across to inspect her niece’s handiwork. “Well done.”

  She untangled her fingers from the loops of silk thread. “Aunt Bess, I am no child in need of protection from the truth.”

  Bess considered Margery’s lovely face, which had lost the soft contours of youth. In the year Bess had been in Wiltshire, her niece had indeed gone from child to woman. However, she was less certain that Margery no longer required protection from the truth.

  “The miller has good reason to suspect the man is not a simple wanderer but is a priest, or at least a devout Catholic,” said Bess. “He is trouble in whichever package he comes.”

  A rapid knock sounded upon the front door, and Joan sprinted from the service rooms to answer it. Rising, Margery shot Bess an alarmed glance.

  Mistress Langham’s servant, the one Bess had tended, hurried into the hall. She had carelessly tied on a straw hat, and it sat askew atop her head.

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” said Anne, dropping a curtsy. “I have a message for Mistress Margery.”

  Anne held out the note. Her hand, with the cut fing
er Bess had bandaged mere days before, trembled.

  Margery bolted from where she stood and snatched it from the girl. “’Tis from Bennett. This is his seal.” She tore it open and read. “Master Topcliffe’s men have come for Bennett and his mother. They are taking them to the churchwarden’s house, where Master Topcliffe has been staying.”

  Joan gasped.

  “When?” asked Bess.

  “They are with him now, Mistress,” said Anne. “Master Langham had but a short time to pen that message and give it to me before the men stormed into his bedchamber and took him and the mistress away. Once Master Topcliffe’s men all left, I ran here as fast as I could.”

  “I must go to him,” said Margery. “I must go to the churchwarden and demand Bennett and his mother be released. They have done nothing wrong.”

  Bess grabbed her arm before she could make good on her idea. “You shall do no such thing. These are dangerous men, and offering yourself into their hands will not help Bennett.”

  “I would ask what they are charged with, that is all,” she said.

  “You shall not.”

  “Mistress Ellyott.” The constable strode into the hall. He looked around at all of them, frozen in their places. “I trust you have heard the news.”

  “What are they charged with?” Bess asked.

  “With aiding a Jesuit.” His gaze was sober. “You have been summoned, Mistress Ellyott, as well. The churchwarden has tasked me with bringing you to his house, to be questioned by Master Topcliffe.”

  “No!” both Margery and Joan cried out.

  Bess reached for Joan’s steadying arm and returned the constable’s gaze without flinching. “So be it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  They stared, all of those who noted Bess’s procession through town. Every person who had ever called upon her to heal their ill child, tend to their sores, cure their aches, their rheums, their rashes. They had made a connection between Topcliffe’s arrival and her march across the market square, and the connection was not to her credit. She could not hide in the shadow cast by Kit Harwoode, and she would not cast her eyes at the cobbles beneath her feet. She was guilty of no crime. She had not aided a Jesuit, sought to unthrone the queen or lessen her authority, prayed over a rosary or heard a Mass. Her father had been raised a Catholic, but he had lifted a finger to test the winds of change and had early realized they blew against him and his family. However, if Bess’s sin was an unwillingness to inform upon people proved guilty of nothing more than supposition, then she was indeed at fault.