A Fall of Shadows Page 5

  And because of Humphrey, Constable Harwoode sought to charge Mistress Ellyn with a man’s death.

  It was wrong of her to have been eavesdropping at the hall doorstead, but it would be far worse if such a charge were to be made. The accusation would take hold of Mistress Ellyn like a limpet to a rock, impossible to pry free.

  Joan rushed down the lane, nodding to the few who greeted her. More than a year since she and the mistress had come to this town, tucked among the chalk and the fields and the cattle and the sheep, and many still cast wary looks at her. She was a stranger and strangers were misliked, even though her mistress’s brother was an important merchant. A stranger who spoke with a London accent and who bore a scar upon her face that would ache on wintry nights, reminding her of what she had suffered at the hands of a man. Joan understood Mistress Ellyn’s secretiveness better than most.

  We will protect you, Mistress Ellyn. My mistress and I.

  At the end of the lane, Joan entered the town square. It was busy, but not half so crowded as it would be on market day. It echoed with the noise of schoolboys chattering outside the walls of the school, unmindful of their master. The blacksmith’s hammer rang out as he repaired a pair of shears. The cobbler’s apprentice gave a cry, soliciting business. A mother shouted at her heedless child to ’ware the costermonger’s wagon rattling across the cobbles, bearing down upon the market cross near to where the child ran after a piglet escaped from its sty.

  It was nothing like the streets and squares of London, clogged with filth and muck. Where the press of crowds could crush a body, or distract one from the cutpurses slipping among the masses with nimble fingers and sharp knives. Here, she rarely had to dodge the remains of chamber pots that mingled with the dung of horses and of animals being driven to market. Or hold her nose against the stench and the smoke.

  At times, though, she did miss the pulsing life of the city. The grand old buildings that soared into the sky. St. Paul’s. The Tower. The Thames so thick with boats and skiffs and barges on some days that a body could nearly cross the river’s width by jumping from one to the next. The church bells and the accents of voices from many corners of the country and beyond. The scent of meat pies that would set a mouth to watering. The sight of the aging queen on procession through the city, in lace and jewels that twinked and sparkled, banners fluttering, brightly attired horses trotting boldly.

  All was not grand and glorious, though. Intrigues and danger walked those streets as well. A man’s ambition had seen the master killed and had forced her and the mistress to flee to safety.

  “And, girl, ’tis best you remember how stealthily danger stalks its victim,” she muttered to herself as she crossed the square.

  The Poynards’ house stood a distance along Church Street, separate from the houses and shops on either side. It was a large and grand building of stone and timbering, jettied upper floors, and oriel windows that caught the daylight. Far larger and grander even than Master Marshall’s house. The ample grounds that stretched out back were encircled by a tall rock wall, broken only by a spare number of gates.

  The house’s window glass sparkled in the crisp October sunlight, the fog all vanished. Movement showed behind the panes, so she rushed past quickly. She did not want to speak to a Poynard, not that any would talk to her, a servant. No, she knew of someone in the household who would be far more willing to tell her what she wished to know.

  Joan rounded the corner of the house and rushed along its side. Past its service buildings and to the nearest gate. Casting a prayer toward the god that did not always seem to hear her prayers, she pounded upon it.

  After a few moments that seemed to last longer than the sermons the priest would give on Sundays, the latch clanked and the gate inched open.

  She exhaled when she saw the person standing on the other side. “God be thanked you answered, Simon.”

  “Mistress Barbor!” he exclaimed, darting through the opening in the gate and closing it behind him.

  One of the Poynards’ servants, he was a boy of no more than eleven or twelve years of age. When she’d first spotted him in the market square, her heart had stopped, he looked so like the brother she had lost to the fever in a London jail. Her last remnant of family. Simon was so like her brother—gangly arms and legs, his hair curling wildly beneath a wool cap, even the way he moved—that she’d nearly cried out her brother’s name, expecting the boy to turn in response. But Simon was not her brother, though he’d quickly become a friend.

  She grinned that he’d called her “Mistress.” Grinned, then shook a finger at him. “You call me Joan, Simon. I’m no one’s mistress.”

  “Are you going to fish in the river today? I cannot go along and help you this time,” he said, downcast. “The actors are still with us, and the masters are in an angry mood. A more angry mood than usual.”

  “It is because of the actors that I am here. You know that one has died.”

  “Aye!” He bent close to her and lowered his voice. “Have you heard that a weasel was seen near the body? Folk have claimed it was a witch’s familiar.”

  “Where did you hear that silliness, boy?”

  “The dead man was found on that hill. The one that is cursed,” he answered, blushing, and she was sorry she’d scoffed at him. “But Old Jellis was arrested.”

  “Aye, he was,” she said. “I tell you this in secret, Simon, that the constable does not think him guilty.”

  “Then it was a witch!”

  His comment made her shudder. “Know you anything about Master Reade?”

  “His mates did not like him,” he said. “He sat alone at meals. I saw when I took the wine flagons up to the lesser hall for supper that the others sat at one end of the table and ignored him.”

  Aha! “His mates hated him.”

  “They cast gibes at him. One said he had no wit,” he said. “Further, they misliked him for his boasts about women.”

  Taunts that gave Master Reade more of a motive to kill one of them than the other way ’round. But Mistress Ellyott was better at understanding these matters than she was.

  “Were there names for these women?” Such as Ellyn? “Did any come to visit him here?”

  “No names,” said Simon. “And Master Poynard would not ever allow a woman to visit a player housed beneath his roof!”

  “Did you see aught else that might explain who might have wished the fellow dead?” Joan asked.

  “Mayhap so,” he replied. “Yestermorn. Master Reade was shouting at someone. He was out in the yard, but I could not see the fellow he shouted at. It might have been Master Poynard he argued with, Master Jeffrey Poynard, but I’m not sure.”

  “What was it they argued over?”

  “A woman,” he said, and winked.

  A woman, again. “Did they speak her name?”

  “Nay. The other fellow just yelled, ‘Stay away from her.’ No name. Master Reade cursed in answer to him and stomped off, shoving by me on his way out of the yard,” he said. His eyes widened. “And never again was Master Reade seen alive.”

  * * *

  “You promised you’d not tell him I was here, Mistress Ellyott,” said Ellyn in a voice raw with disappointment.

  Bess glanced at Kit Harwoode, whose countenance was sterner than she’d ever observed before.

  “My brother’s manservant found your bloodied kirtle and took it to him,” she said to Ellyn. “I am sorry.”

  “You are Ellyn Merrick, are you not?” asked the constable.

  A Merrick? “Ellyn, you should have told me,” interrupted Bess. “I was called to your family’s farm yesterday afternoon to attend to one of your dairymaids. Anna Webb.”

  “Then you met my mother and understand why I did not give you my full name.”

  I’faith, she did understand.

  “Mistress Ellyott tells me you have lost a child, Mistress Merrick,” said the constable.

  Ellyn’s fingers clutched the bed’s white woolen coverlet. “I have.”
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br />   He did not put forward the question he might have. “Do you know Bartholomew Reade?” he asked instead.

  “I do,” she answered. “But I have not seen in him in many, many weeks. Why do you ask?”

  “He was murdered yesterday. Stabbed.”

  She gasped. Tears sprang up to tremble on her eyelids. “No! No!”

  “Ellyn, you must take care.” Bess hastened to the young woman’s side. She took Ellyn’s clammy, trembling hand and sat upon the bed. “Constable, she is yet frail. Cannot your questions wait?”

  “Tell me about Master Reade, Mistress,” he said to Ellyn.

  Apparently his questions could not wait, thought Bess.

  Ellyn withdrew her hand from Bess’s. “He was a good man,” she said, wiping away her tears. “He desired to become a playwright in London, and had been traveling with the Admiral’s Men as an actor.”

  Though she’d not seen him for many weeks, she had obviously followed his whereabouts.

  The constable cast a glance at Bess; mayhap he shared her thought. “So you knew him well, Mistress Merrick.”

  “I knew him well. As did many folk hereabouts.”

  “Were you aware he’d returned here with the troupe visiting the Poynards, Mistress Merrick?”

  “I had heard, but I had not seen him.”

  The constable dragged his fingertips through his short beard. It was the sign his mind was occupied with musings. Constable Harwoode is a fair and honest man. But how well did Bess know him, in truth? Was she so certain of his fairness and honesty?

  “Do you have an answer to who might have killed Master Reade, Mistress Merrick?” he asked.

  She lowered her head, and a fresh tear slid down her cheek. “There is one who would have wished him harm,” she said. “Jeffrey Poynard. He was jealous of Bartholomew’s past attentions to me and my feelings for him. Jeffrey Poynard wants me for himself.”

  “You and Master Reade were in love with each other?” Bess asked. A connection to a dead man stronger than the coincidence that she’d arrived at Bess’s garden gate the same night he had been murdered. Jesu.

  “At one time,” said Ellyn.

  “Mistress Ellyott, allow me to ask the questions,” chided the constable.

  “Forgive me,” said Bess, chastened.

  “So you propose, Mistress Merrick, that when Reade returned to town, Master Poynard’s jealousy rekindled. Furthermore, he may have been jealous enough to remove a rival for your heart.”

  “Jeffrey Poynard does not readily control his passions, his wrath, Constable,” she said, lifting her gaze. “He is not a man to be crossed.”

  “Yet Master Reade communicated with Jeffrey Poynard about a performance at the Poynards’ home and chose to stay within his house,” said Constable Harwoode, his eyes narrowing. “Why would he have done so if there was ill will between them?”

  “I know not. I know not!” she wailed. “And now he is dead!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Bess closed the door to Ellyn’s chamber.

  “Constable, prithee wait!” she called out. His footfalls pounded on the staircase as he descended. Bess hiked her skirts and dashed after him. “Constable!”

  He paused at the foot of the winding stairs. “You trust her?”

  “Certes, I do,” she answered. “Could she have pretended such distress? I know not how you could imagine it possible.”

  “Easily, for I have a rich imagination.” The constable halted inside the hall. “The man she has accused was at his house the evening of Reade’s death, Mistress Ellyott. I saw him there myself.”

  “You mean that Ellyn blames Master Poynard to deflect suspicion from herself,” she answered. “I have explained that she miscarried, Constable. Why can you not believe me?”

  “Because the same evening Ellyn Merrick arrives at your door bleeding, her former lover is found dead,” he said. “If you have not concluded the coincidence is strange, Mistress, then you are not the clever woman I believe you to be.”

  Nay, I do mark it as strange, Constable.

  “I have questions of my own. As it is clear you mistrust Mistress Ellyn and regard her as a suspect in this crime,” she said. “Firstly, how long did Master Reade lie dead atop that mound? And could the crime have occurred before the Poynards threw open their doors for the night’s entertainment?”

  “In daylight? Not far from a well-trafficked highway?”

  “The day was overcast with clouds, Constable, with rain at times. Further, the hillock is surrounded by thickets and trees and is not so readily seen from the road,” she answered. “As you likely observed when you went there. Many folk avoid the mound, too, fearing it cursed. And with the talk of a witch being afoot, they will avoid the place all the more. As best they can whilst passing.”

  “You have heard about the witch.”

  “Humphrey nails elder crosses to the animal sheds for protection,” she said. “Could it be possible that Jeffrey Poynard slipped away during the commotion of the guests gathering and supper being served?”

  “Gibb and I arrived later than most of the guests. Poynard might have left his house and returned,” he admitted. “But before you become smug, Mistress Ellyott, I saw no blood soiling Poynard’s clothing to indicate he’d recently stabbed a man.”

  “’Tis simple, Constable. He disposed of his outer garment.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’ll not debate this matter any further with you, Mistress Ellyott. But I will say this. Do not risk your own safety protecting a woman who might be guilty of a terrible crime,” he said. “I beg you to be careful.”

  “You sound like my brother.”

  “It is a pity, then, that you appear unwilling to listen to either of us.”

  The constable spun on his heel and stomped from the hall and out of the house.

  Joan darted into the room, Quail close behind.

  “Bah!” Bess shouted. “Does he imagine he can command me?”

  “He is a man, Mistress.”

  But such a man was not the Kit Harwoode she thought she’d known.

  Quail ambled over to sniff at her skirt where it had brushed the constable’s leg. “I will not allow him to accuse Ellyn of murder, though, merely because it might prove simple to do so.”

  “Mistress, I have only just come from the Poynards’ and spoken to a servant there about Master Reade,” said Joan. “I have news that might be of import and help prove Mistress Ellyn’s innocence.”

  * * *

  “Good morrow, Constable. You find me at my work.” Jeffrey Poynard, seated at his carved oak desk, raised a well-kept hand to gesture at the stacks of papers spread across its surface. The rings on his fingers glinted. “However, I am pleased the news that the players disrupt our household has reached you quickly. They fight and curse and spit at each other. Prithee, haul them away.”

  “I’m not here to haul away the players, Master Poynard,” said Kit.

  “Then why have you come? You see that I am busy.”

  Kit dragged over a stool, flipped aside his cloak, and sat. “Master Poynard, I need your help with a matter.”

  Eyeing Kit, he rested one hand atop his silver inkwell and his other hand upon the peasecod-bellied swell of his doublet. His pale clothing—silver-gray doublet, trunk hose, and netherstocks—gleamed like a shaft of light amid the room’s walnut paneling and red furnishings. Kit trusted that the splendid effect was intentional.

  Pompous coxcomb.

  “But not the matter that interests me,” said Poynard.

  “The matter might interest you,” said Kit. “For it does concern the players.”

  The fingers he’d splayed across his doublet drummed. “Reade.”

  He might be pompous, but he was not stupid.

  “Someone has accused you of killing him,” said Kit.

  “What?” he scoffed. “That is a ridiculous lie.”

  His face had reddened to the shade of the velvet covering his chair. The color was everywhere. Cush
ions of crimson. Bolsters of vermillion silk. Turkey carpets shot through with scarlet. Even the floor tiles were a deep brick red.

  “I have been told you hated Reade,” said Kit. “Jealousy over a woman.”

  Poynard rolled his eyes. “That stale story.” He snapped shut the lid of his inkwell. The sound was sharp in the hushed silence of the space. “Old Jellis stands accused. He struck Reade down to steal from the fellow. He will stand trial at the Quarter Sessions and be found guilty, then hang. I know not why you listen to slander when the question of who killed Bartholomew Reade has already been answered.”

  “Jellis is frail, and there wasn’t a drop of blood on his clothing,” said Kit. “You are an intelligent man, Master Poynard. You see why I search for other possible murderers.”

  “Such as me?”

  “When a townsperson makes an accusation, Master Poynard, I must investigate.”

  “What is the name of the one who makes such an accusation?”

  “I am not free to say.”

  Poynard drew in a breath, and his face returned to its normal color. “I suspect I know the source, so you need not name the person. However, Constable Harwoode, any dispute I once had with Bartholomew is no longer relevant. We may not have become friends, but we had reconciled. My father and servants will speak for me. I was in this house at the time of Bartholomew’s unfortunate death.”

  “What time was that, Master Poynard? Have I said?”

  Poynard pinched his lips together.

  “You agreed to welcome Reade and his troupe here, to stay within your house,” said Kit. “Most generous of you.”

  “As I said, Constable, I carried no grudge against the man. He proposed to me to bring the troupe here. He was welcome in our house. His father and mine are old friends. I pitied Bartholomew. His plans to become an important playwright were foundering.” Spoken with a touch of glee. “Mayhap, if you doubt Jellis’s guilt, you might find Bartholomew’s killer among his troublesome fellows. They clearly resented him. Some quarrel over a play he had written, I believe.”

  As much as Kit had liked the idea that the arrogant Jeffrey Poynard could be guilty, he might have to turn his attention elsewhere.