A Fall of Shadows Page 3

  “We dare not!” the fellow’s companion declared. “Who can say what evil struck him down? I’d not have it strike me, too! Unholy place.”

  “’Twas the witch, Constable!” another called out.

  Helpful.

  “Gibb, bring a lantern,” said Kit.

  He gripped his dagger as he climbed the slope, his shoes slipping on its damp grass. A wind shook the branches of the trees surrounding the mound on three sides and cut through his clothing. Kit buttoned his padded doublet to his neck against the cold.

  “You be careful, Constable!” someone among the gathered crowd cried.

  Gibb scrambled up the hill behind Kit. “Dearest Lord.”

  “Just so.”

  The man lay crumpled at the very center of the mound. He’d been stabbed multiple times, his torso covered with gashes, most of them in his back. His knife, its blade clean, rested near his outstretched hand. Blood had soaked into the cloak he’d spread to rest upon and stained his shirt. The material stuck to the fellow’s muscular body. And from the side of his throat protruded a broken reed pen.

  “Now we know what caused his absence,” said Kit.

  Gibb bent down to remove the pen from the man’s neck. The tip was extremely sharp and thick with gore. Gibb grimaced in disgust. “The weapon?”

  “Not the one that killed him.” That blade was nowhere to be seen.

  “A vile, vengeful crime, coz.” Gibb used the toe of his boot to prod a leather penner at the man’s side. Quills and bits of paper spilled from the cylindrical container, and a brass inkwell had rolled some distance away. The quills had been snapped as though trod beneath a foot.

  “He carried his penner with him everywhere,” said Dunning, looking up at Kit and Gibb from the base of the mound. “He was not just an actor but a playwright as well. ’Fore God, how did he come to this?”

  “What was his name?” asked Kit.

  “Bartholomew Reade,” said the player.

  The name was familiar; someone had mentioned it to Kit only recently. It was familiar to everyone else as well, if the gasps among those assembled were any indication.

  “Reade?” asked Gibb.

  “You are familiar with him?”

  “Aye. He is the oldest son of the farm owner whose land lies between here and town,” said Gibb, holding the reed pen at arm’s length as though he wished he’d never touched it. “But I thought he was gone from this area some time now.”

  “Master Dunning, how did you know to look for your friend here?” asked Kit. Though near to the village, the hillock was secluded, located a good dozen yards off the road and sheltered by a thicket of trees and shrubs.

  “Bartholomew told me and the others he was to meet a woman.” The player tugged the short cloak he wore tighter about his body. “At a small hill where no one liked to go. We—my fellows and I—chose several paths around the town, not knowing which such hill among the many Bartholomew meant. We are not from this area, like he was. How could we know? The others had no patience, quit early, and returned to prepare for the performance. I continued, though. And then …” He swallowed, the movement of his Adam’s apple shifting the ruff about his neck. “And then I did find him.”

  “This evil hill,” the fellow with the damaged ear said to the others nearby. “Used to be a druid temple here. On top of this mound, where they would hold their rites. Make their sacrifices.”

  “Commune between the living and the dead,” added Gibb quietly.

  “This fellow was not killed by a druid, Gibb,” said Kit. “Nor by a witch.”

  Gibb surveyed the flat expanse of the mound’s peak where they stood, his face lit by the orange glow from the lantern he carried. “Are you certain, Kit?”

  “We search for a killer of flesh and blood. Not a mystical, magical being.” Kit turned to the onlookers. “Know you who might have done this to Master Reade? Any of you?”

  “’Twas the witch!” several shouted.

  Another pointed at Dunning, who shrank back. “He or one of his fellows likely did! Players! You know that lot!”

  Just then, a man in a bright-green jerkin crashed through the underbrush. “Constable! I found the killer! Here!” He jabbed a thumb toward the shrubs. “Here!”

  As one, the crowd spun around and followed him. Kit hurried down the hill, Gibb on his heels.

  A pockmarked fellow gripped the accused’s elbow. Grizzled and gray, more bones than substance, the old man he held squinted in the light of the torches carried by the mob.

  “He was sleeping here.” The fellow in green gestured at a cleared spot sheltered by a thick growth of hawthorn. “And I found this nearby.” He picked up a belt and purse, which jingled with coins. “Taken from Master Reade.”

  “What?” The old man’s breath stank of strong drink. “I did nothing.”

  “Master Reade’s purse is missing,” said Gibb, still holding the reed pen.

  “There’s no blood on the old man’s clothing,” said Kit. “And I doubt he could strangle a cat, let alone murder a fit young man.”

  “He be a vagrant, Constable. Trouble to the village,” said a villager. The crowd nodded and shouted agreement. “He must be arrested.”

  Kit exhaled, a sour feeling in his stomach. “Take him to the jail. And send for the coroner to examine Master Reade’s body.”

  They dragged the old man away, the vagrant unsteady and stumbling, leaving Kit and Gibb behind.

  “That was quick,” said Gibb.

  “Too quick, Gibb,” said Kit. “Far too quick.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’m to take her to the above-kitchen chamber, Mistress?” asked Humphrey.

  He pursed his lips and squinted at the woman, whom Bess and Joan had managed to lay upon a mattress by the hall fire. They had removed her stained skirt and petticoats and covered her with a blanket to hide the blood on her shift; if Humphrey noticed, his disapproval would be even greater.

  “Joan will help you,” she said.

  “What if she be diseased?” he asked. “She looks like she has been sick.”

  They had also tried to clean the woman’s face and hair, but had apparently not been thorough enough. “You will not contract an illness from her, Humphrey. Trust me on this. Now do as I ask.”

  He did not move. “She should go back to wherever she’s come from, Mistress.”

  “As she has not awakened to tell us who she is, Humphrey, we do not know where to send her. All we know is that she needs our help, and we shall give it.”

  “Aye, Mistress. Move aside, Quail.” He nudged the dog with the toe of his thick shoe. Quail had not left the woman’s side since she’d been wheeled into the hall, and only reluctantly did he get to his feet.

  Joan secured the blanket about the woman’s body and, with Humphrey, hoisted her. The stranger’s eyelids fluttered but did not open. Slowly, they carried her up the winding staircase at the corner of the hall. When she was finally settled upon the feather-mattress-topped bed in one of the empty chambers, Bess released a sigh of relief.

  “Master Marshall shall not be happy,” said Humphrey.

  “I expect, Humphrey, that our patient will be recovered and safely back at her home by the time my brother returns from London.”

  Grumbling, Humphrey departed, and Bess took a seat on the stool pulled up next to the bed. “I still gather in the outcasts, do I not, Joan? My brother claims I am too compassionate. But I did not collect her. She came to me.”

  “Your skills are familiar to all.”

  “Even to those I do not know, it seems.” Bess tucked the blanket around the woman’s shoulders. “I shall sit with her for a while, Joan. Bring my mixture of sage and yarrow and salt, some cool water, and cloths so I may bathe her wrists. She remains a trifle feverish.”

  “But then what shall we do?”

  “In the morning, if she has not awakened by then, I will need you to ask about the village if a woman has gone missing. I hope, though, she awakens before that becomes
necessary.” Bess brushed strands of hair away from the woman’s eyes. Bess had thought her hair brown, but the candlelight revealed it to have an auburn hue. She was very lovely, her features even, her nose petite, and her lips lush. A woman who would turn many a man’s head. “So we can ask her about the infant her body has expelled.”

  * * *

  “Forsooth, I cannot fathom …” began John Howlett, the leader of the players. “What a tragedy.”

  He slumped on a stool, his gray wig dangling from one hand. He and Kit sat in a cramped chamber off the Poynards’ service rooms. The players had been given the space to use as their tiring room. Bright bits of clothing were tossed over trunks and atop barrels, and theater properties were scattered about. Howlett’s remaining players huddled in a nearby room.

  “When did you last see Reade?” asked Kit over the clatter of pots and dishes coming from the direction of the nearby kitchen. A man had been killed that day, but the duties of the Poynards’ household apparently could not stop.

  “Around midday.” Howlett had reddened his mouth with madder, which he’d tried to wipe off. The attempt had left a smear of color across his cheek. “When he did not return to prepare for the night’s performance, I sent the others to search for him.”

  “Your player, Dunning, the one who found him, said Reade had gone to meet a woman. Did he often do that?”

  “No more, no less than the others, Constable.”

  “What else do you know about him, Master Howlett?” asked Kit. “He was a local man, but I am unfamiliar with him.”

  “He was from this village,” said Howlett. “I took him on around a month ago, in Shrewsbury. He claimed to have been with the Admiral’s Men there and proved to be a skilled actor.”

  “I thought you’d all been with the Admiral’s Men.”

  “No. A fib to add glister to our reputation, I confess. They are renowned.”

  What else did John Howlett “fib” about?

  “The Admiral’s Men are in need of monies, as are most of us these days,” Howlett continued, setting his wig aside. “The theaters are closed in London because of plague, forcing everyone into the provinces in search of employment. They have released many of their players out of necessity. We ourselves no longer have a sponsor and hope to find one. We can only continue, though, until our warrant from the Privy Council allowing us to travel expires. At which point …” He shrugged.

  “So Reade left the Admiral’s Men and joined you,” said Kit.

  “He had ambitions to be a playwright, as well. He was desirous of becoming the next Christopher Marlowe.”

  Kit could not tell if the comment was meant to be critical or complimentary.

  “Did the others find Reade agreeable, or did his ambitions cause strife?” he asked.

  “There are always petty jealousies amongst players, Constable. Sober-mindedness to ever be restored among them,” the fellow replied, sounding weary of his responsibility to do the restoring.

  “Jealousies sufficient to wish to kill the man?”

  Howlett paled, the madder he’d rubbed across his cheekbones standing out in garish red spots, and shivered. The room was clammy, the stone floor beneath their feet slick with moisture. He might be shivering from the chill. Or he might not.

  “Why ask these questions, Constable? Has not the murderer been clapped in the town jail?”

  “I have my reasons.” From the pouch suspended from his belt, Kit withdrew the pen, its tip stained from ink and Reade’s blood. He held it up to the light of the lantern he’d earlier set on the floor.

  Howlett’s eyes widened. “He was killed with one of his pens?”

  “It was found thrust into his neck. His other quills were crushed as though in anger.”

  “A reed pen,” said Howlett, more calmly. “A pun upon his name?”

  “Mayhap so,” agreed Kit. “An interesting act.”

  “To be stabbed with his own writing tool.” Howlett shook his head. “Reade carried his quills and pens everywhere with him. Aside from his own scribbling, he was responsible for making changes to our plays as necessary. Cut scenes. Reduce dialogue if we lack the right number of actors or are in need of a change because of a new player. I’d set him to the task of trimming one of our manuscripts, in fact, as we are short a player.”

  Kit returned the pen to his pouch. “I have a final question for you, Master Howlett. Why did you bring your players to this particular town? As long as I have lived here, we have never had a traveling troupe perform in this part of Wiltshire.”

  Howlett released a sharp, short laugh. “Our visit was Bartholomew’s idea. He had been in communication with the Poynards about a performance. So we came.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Rather ironic, think you not?”

  * * *

  “Who let you in?” Kit asked, entering his upstairs hall to find his cousin sprawled on a chair set before the empty hearth.

  Gibb straightened. “Alice. Who else? ’Tis not as though you have given me a key.”

  After weeks of hounding by Gibb and his father, Kit had finally hired a girl to tend to his house.

  “Your father, my dear uncle, thinks you spend too much time in my company as it is,” said Kit. “And clearly you have no need of a key when my maidservant gives you free rein.”

  Kit crossed the room, tossing his hat onto his desk and following it with his dagger. The pen thrust into Reade’s neck he laid alongside the items. “Any news?”

  “The coroner made his ruling of murder,” said Gibb. “And his jury agree with the decision to accuse that old man. His name is Jellis, by the way. Has no home of which I am aware.”

  “At least he is not a witch nor wizard.”

  “Nor druid.”

  “Aye.” Kit stared out the hall window. His house was located near the town’s market center and overlooked the dark streets below. Here and there, lanterns or torches burned at doorways. They shed their light upon the town watchman, who tapped his staff and rang his bell as he crossed the cobbles. “The master of the troupe says it was Reade’s idea to come here.”

  Gibb whistled. “Not the best idea.”

  Kit pushed away from the window. He dropped onto the chair across from Gibb. “And now he cannot repent it.”

  “Curious though, think you not?” Gibb hugged his short cape about his torso and gave an elaborate shudder. “Can you not light a fire, Kit? ’Tis cold as a witch’s—”

  “Aye, Gibb. I understand,” said Kit. “Should I have Alice bring a warm posset for you to drink for your weary old bones?”

  “Fie on you, Kit.”

  “Alice would likely faint if I went into the kitchen and made a demand,” he said. “I do not know what to do with her. She fears her own shadow.” But she’d come cheap, and now he understood why.

  “Perhaps I should send my sister here to advise both you and Alice.”

  “Frances has returned home?” She’d been staying with friends in Gloucester for the past few months.

  “She has done, and she would greatly delight in giving you counsel about servants.”

  “I do not need more Harwoode cousins minding my affairs.”

  “Frances would enjoy the visit.”

  “I know she would, and that is the problem.”

  Gibb chuckled, then sobered. “Think you it is true that Reade went to the hill to tryst with a woman? Many folk around here avoid the old druids’ mound, which does make it the perfect place to meet. If you seek privacy and do not fear the place.”

  “I’ll not ask if you have made use of this place yourself for trysting, Gibb.”

  Gibb smirked. “How you jest, coz.” He peered at Kit. “Do you have a posset heated in the kitchen?” he asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  Gibb groaned and rubbed his gloved hands together to warm them. “There is not ever a bite to eat or a cup to be had in this house. I truly imagined that hiring Alice would change matters.”

  “It has not. And you”—Kit leaned over to poke his c
ousin with his finger—“are ever hungry and thirsty.”

  “True,” he said. “We have not found the weapon, though. We will search again on the morrow.”

  “My thanks for your help.”

  “But even if we discover the blade, Kit, how can we prove Jellis did not kill Reade?”

  Kit dragged his fingertips through his short beard. “There, Gibb, is the question with no clear answer. As yet.”

  * * *

  A noise roused Bess from her dozing, and she rubbed her eyes. The candle Joan had set on the floor had burned low, dripping wax onto the holder’s pewter base. Light peeked through the gaps in the brocade curtain hung across the chamber’s window. Morning had come.

  The woman upon the bed moaned, the same sound that must have awoken Bess, and she opened her eyes.

  She looked over at Bess. Her eyes were a shade not unlike cinnamon, soft and warm.

  “Where am I?” She shifted to sit upright but slumped back against the pillow. “How have I come to be in this chamber?”

  “Do you not recall?”

  “Not clearly.”

  Bess bent down, her stiff back rebelling from having been seated without moving for hours. She reached for the flagon of the organy and mint steeped in wine that Joan had set on the floor near the candle and poured some into a cup. “Here. Drink this. You might feel better if you do.”

  Without protest, the woman sipped from the cup.

  “What is your name?” Bess asked her.

  “Ellyn,” she said.

  “Ellyn …” Bess prodded.

  “’Tis best that I give you no more of a name than that.”

  “As you wish, Mistress Ellyn.” Bess poured more of the wine into the woman’s cup. “I am Elizabeth Ellyott, though most who know me well call me Bess. I am an herbalist and healer.”

  “Yes. I do know who you are. Your niece told me of you.”

  “My sister Dorothie’s daughter? Margery?” Bess asked. “If you are her friend, then you are indeed most welcome here. I would send for her, but she is away with her mother.”