Searcher of the Dead Page 7

  “I have seen no such fellow,” said Bennett Langham, not a single twitch revealing if he lied or spoke truth. “I have been back home for only a week though. To tend to the Michaelmas rents due to us from our few tenants.”

  “Where is it you have come from?”

  “From Bristol. My family has a minor shipping concern there.”

  “More than five miles.” The queen had enacted a law forbidding Catholics to travel more than that distance without permission, which was difficult to obtain. “Do you have a pass allowing you to travel?”

  “I do. I attend church in Bristol and am not deemed a Catholic there,” he said. “Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes, it does,” Kit answered honestly.

  “Well, if you have asked all your questions, I must get back to my rent books.”

  Bold and direct. He might like this fellow under other circumstances. “I am not finished, Master Langham. You say you’ve not seen this stranger, but I must ask if your family is aiding him.”

  “I know what it is you look for.” The other man lifted his chin. “Search the house. My mother is at the market with a servant. You will not disturb her.”

  “I will send my cousin Gibb to do so.” Kit inclined his head. “Many thanks.”

  Langham twitched at that; he’d not expected Kit to act upon the invitation. “If that is all—”

  “You mentioned Fulke Crofton earlier,” interrupted Kit. “Why did you think my visit has anything to do with him?”

  “You are aware of the connection between him and my family. ’Tis the reason you send Gibb to search my house.”

  “I expect his death does not grieve you, Master Langham.” He would be a far more forgiving man than most if it did.

  “He was the stepfather of someone I am fond of. Further, I would never rejoice at any man’s death,” he answered directly. “To be found upon Sir Walter’s land seems a fitting location for Master Crofton to make his end, though. A final insult to a man he despised.”

  Oh? “Do you know his reason?”

  “Sir Walter and Fulke Crofton had a long-standing feud, Constable, which I am surprised you do not know about. I am not privy to the details. I am familiar only with the magnitude of their enmity.” He considered for a moment. “If Master Crofton had become distraught enough to take his own life, where better to commit the act than upon grounds owned by a foe?”

  * * *

  Clouds covered the sun as it lowered to the horizon, dousing Bess’s bedchamber in darkness. She lit her oil lamp with a rushlight brought from the kitchen and prayed it would not rain that night. The task before her would become more difficult if it did. For her to succeed, so much must fall properly into place, like the interlocking wheels of a clock mechanism.

  She loosened the back ties of her gown with a long-handled hook and pulled the garment off over her head, stripping down to the dark kirtle beneath. She would wear it and her black cloak for her sole disguise, hoping she would blend in with the night. Now that the constable had set a regular watch, she would have to wait to depart until the watchman passed the house. He would do so about an hour after the curfew bell had been rung, which had occurred a few moments ago.

  Bess had just finished strapping on her thick-soled mules when Margery abruptly stepped into the room.

  “Aunt Bess, I was hoping to speak with you about the aqua vitae we plan to distill tomorrow …” Her gaze took in Bess’s attire, pausing at the mules upon her feet. “What are you doing?”

  “It is unwise for you to know my plans, Margery.”

  “Forgive me, but if it is unwise for me to know them, it is likely unwise for you to pursue them.”

  “Well said,” said Bess. “However, if I tell you what I mean to do, you must promise to never inform Uncle Marshall or Humphrey.”

  “What would you not have them know?”

  Bess collected her cloak from where it lay upon her mattress. “I suspect that your stepfather may not have died by his own hand, and I intend to prove so.”

  “You mean …” She stared at Bess. “Murder?”

  Bess swung the cloak over her shoulders, clasping it about her neck, the wool scraping across her bare skin. No ruffs or partlets this even.

  “All this may be a fancy of mine, Margery, but I believe I saw strange marks upon his throat and would confirm my memory.”

  “But you shall have to look at his body again in order to do so.” She reached for Bess’s elbow to clutch it. “The watch will stop you. You will be punished for breaking curfew. No, Aunt Bess.”

  “How can I not try?” Bess asked. “You stand to lose everything, save for the few items you inherited from your father. If the coroner has made an error in his ruling, it must be overturned.”

  There came a knock upon the door, and Joan entered. “Ah, Mistress Margery,” she said cautiously.

  “She knows,” said Bess. “But why are you here now? ’Tis too early.”

  “The spare key to the garden gate, Mistress. I cannot find it,” she whispered.

  Because the watchman prowled the town streets, Bess had reasoned it safest for her to exit through the garden gate, away from sight. They needed that spare key to the gate, though, in order to let Bess out. Once the sun set, Humphrey secured all the exterior entrances.

  “It is not on the hook by the entrance to the service rooms where it always hangs,” said Joan. “Every day save this day, it seems.”

  “Jesu!” Bess cursed.

  “Mistress.” Joan held up her hand to quiet her. “Humphrey has just returned from the Cross Keys and sits below us in the hall, lingering over his supper. You do not wish him to hear.”

  “What does it matter if he hears? Without that key, my imprudent idea is doomed to failure.”

  “Aunt Bess,” Margery interrupted. “I may know where to find the key to the gate lock.”

  * * *

  “I care for none of this,” said Joan.

  “You shall not lose heart, shall you?” Bess squeezed her servant’s hand.

  “Mistress, your fingers are cold.”

  Because she was frightened. “I have never sought to dig up a person before.” Or sought to examine a corpse. She dealt only with those who were unwell, not those who had passed away.

  Yet now she had become a searcher of the dead.

  The chamber door opened, and Margery hastened inside.

  “I have what I promised.” She reached into the pocket hanging from her girdle and held aloft an iron key. “I remembered noticing earlier today that Humphrey had left his keys outside the still room door when he replenished your stock of firewood, Aunt Bess. He must have forgotten where he had left them, which is why he must have borrowed the spare set to lock the doors. These were still there when I went looking.”

  Bess reached for her and pulled her near, kissing her upon the cheek. “Bless you. But does he remain inside the house?”

  “He was gone when I finished tidying the hall and seeing to the fire, Mistress,” said Joan. “Just before I came back up here.”

  Humphrey would have retreated to his room above the stables. “Where is Quail? If he barks at me, Humphrey might hear and come to see what is amiss.”

  Margery handed the keys to Joan. “I shall find Quail and take him into my chamber and keep him quiet.”

  “Now we wait for the sound of the watchman,” said Bess. And there it was at that moment, the steady rapping of his staff upon the street and the tang of his bell to mark his presence. Bess’s heart raced, and she considered the women watching her. “Shall we proceed?”

  Margery nodded and left to find Quail.

  “Come.” Bess signaled to Joan to follow. They departed the bedchamber and felt their way through the heavy darkness of the winding stairwell. The steps creaked more loudly than Bess ever recalled them doing, and the thick soles of her mules made her falter in her attempts to find the edges of the treads. “I would we could light a candle.”

  “Humphrey would come nosing about
to see why a light shone in the hall at this hour,” said Joan. “He’d hope to catch me wasting good candles when I was not to.”

  They reached the ground floor. Outside, the clouds had parted, and moonlight spilled through the hall’s bay windows, easing their passage.

  “Here, Mistress.” Joan went ahead, into the alcove that led onto the rear door, to open it. Bess could smell the cool night air through the gap.

  “Where can I find the spade I need?” she asked, walking outside. As she crossed the threshold, Bess knew there would be no turning back. She must go forward and pray none stopped her.

  The outbuildings, which housed the garden implements, Robert’s chickens, and Humphrey himself, stretched directly back from the right side of the main building. Joan pointed toward the last door in the line of doors. “The spade is there. Just inside the opening. Let me fetch the lantern.”

  Joan hurried off to the kitchen and returned with a lit horn-pane lantern she had draped with a kerchief to dim its glow. Bess would keep it covered until well free of town and prying eyes.

  “’Tis the stable lantern, Mistress, and the best one for your purposes.”

  They proceeded, the gravel of the courtyard crunching beneath their feet. All of a sudden, barking sounded from within the house. Bess ducked behind a barrel. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Joan had frozen in place behind her. Bess’s pulse thudded as she waited for Humphrey to lumber from his room, but he did not appear, and the barking halted.

  “My thanks to you, Margery, for your help,” Bess murmured, and Joan rushed to join her. “Hurry. We must hurry.”

  Joan opened the far door and fetched around for the spade. She handed it to Bess, who slid it upside down into her girdle, its point jabbing her in the ribs.

  Joan undid the lock holding the latch in place and pushed the garden gate open. “Godspeed.”

  Tugging the cloak’s hood about her cheeks, Bess passed through and out into the night.

  * * *

  Since Robert’s house stood at the edge of town, Bess had not far to travel before she was beyond sight of most of the townsfolk. Curtains were drawn over windows, and in those without glass, the shutters had been put in place for the night. The good folk trusted the watchman to defend them against intruders and to alert Constable Harwoode and his men.

  She left the houses behind her and chose a path hugging the stream that flowed from the river. Fulke had been buried not far from where his body had been found. The path, trodden into the grass and mud by countless feet that had gone that way to fish along the banks or swim in the waters on a hot summer’s day, allowed her to avoid the long pole that barred entry into town on the southern road. She could also avoid the ruins of the plague house and the priory, which loomed ahead. She cared not to pass those stones in the daytime. She cared less to pass them in the gloom of night.

  The water shimmered back the glow of the moon, which ducked beneath scattering clouds, forcing Bess to pause until it reappeared. Her slow progress exasperated her, but she would not speed along and risk injury or detection. Nor would she hurry so near to the stream. Water frightened her, and Bess believed she could drown in a puddle. Robert, in a moment of sport, had once teasingly threatened to toss her into the millpond, only to have her slip from his grasp and fall in. As she had plunged beneath the surface, the shock of the cold water had been enough to make her heart clench. She had churned the pond into a murky brown in her frantic attempts to gain purchase on the muddy bottom. And how she had gasped for air, only to draw in water. Robert had reached in to drag her onto the bank, his apologies desperately sincere while she retched onto the grass.

  After which, there was no more teasing.

  An owl hooted from a tree looming over the riverbank, and creatures scuttled among the sticks and fallen leaves. So long as one of those creatures was not a rat, she did not mind their company. Bess passed the location of the bar and scrambled up the incline toward the road, happy to be away from the water. Her feet slipped on the damp grass, and the spade repeatedly stabbed into her side. In the morning, Bess suspected, she would find a bruise.

  Out here, beyond the outermost limits of the town, the whitewashed stones that lined the road grew sparse and came to an end. She did not require their assistance to help her find the way; she removed the kerchief she’d thrown over the lantern and cast its light upon the lane. Up ahead rose the dead tree beyond the crossroads, its trunk charred and split by a lightning strike, its branches twisted arms reaching into the night sky. Coming nearer, Bess could see the mound of freshly tilled dirt that covered Fulke’s body.

  She placed the lantern upon the ground near his grave and took out the spade. Kneeling, she started to dig. The soil was soft and the work quick; the men had done a poor job and had not buried him deeply. Good fortune was with her, for she had chosen the proper end to start with and soon located the sheet wound about her brother-in-law’s torso and head.

  “Oh, Fulke. God rest you.” She pressed a hand to the cloth and felt the outlines of his face beneath. Her gorge rose, and she swallowed hard. “And God help me.”

  Lacking a knife—too late to wish she had been wiser and thought to bring one—she used the point of the spade to tear a hole in the winding sheet. Grabbing the opening, Bess split the material away. Fulke’s face was taking on a sickly greenish hue, and his mouth hung open, the rigors of death stiffening his body. Hastily, she concealed his head with the torn edge of the sheet.

  Careful to avoid touching his cold skin with her bare fingertips, Bess peeled back the material to reveal his throat. She raised the lantern to examine it. There were two red lines gone purple, one much darker than the other and slicing across the midline of his neck. Just as she had recalled. A thin, deep line that had not been left by the thick rope used to suspend his body from a tree. Rather, the sort of line that would result from a length of twine wrapped around his neck and pulled tightly, choking off his air.

  Bess rocked back on her heels. Here was the proof she had sought. A heinous crime had been committed, and the man who had killed Fulke was out there, somewhere.

  She scooped dirt back onto his body, returning the mound to its prior condition as best she could.

  Restoring the spade to her girdle, she retraced her steps along the path. Her thoughts were sour. First Martin killed, and now Fulke.

  She could not say when she finally realized that the night sounds along the stream did not now belong only to creatures. She increased her pace. Were the noises the footfalls of a person? They could be. Extinguishing the lantern flame, she scurried for the road and began to run. She panted for breath and could not hear if the footsteps pursued her. Stumbling upon a hole in the highway, she fell to her knees, the lantern flying from her grasp.

  Dear God. Dear God!

  She scrambled to her feet, her ankle protesting. Wincing, she hobbled forward. She would not retrieve the lantern. She had to get away.

  Bess arrived at the untended bar and scrabbled underneath it. Taking possibly misguided comfort from the barrier between her and her pursuer, she dared look back. But all she saw were the shadow-deep stones of the priory, the haunted remains of the burned plague house, and the far-off glow of a torch burning at the gates of Highcombe Manor.

  She released a breath. She would have to concoct a clever story about what had happened to that lantern, should Humphrey ask after it.

  With a relieved laugh, Bess turned just as a light was thrust into her face, blinding her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kit lifted the lantern. The woman’s hood was pulled taut about her face. If it was a woman beneath the enveloping clothing.

  He withdrew his dagger, the blade gleaming in the light. “What do you here?”

  “Do not stab me,” the person croaked, the hood falling away. “I can explain.”

  Bloody … Kit lowered the lantern. “I would take great pleasure in hearing your explanation, Mistress Ellyott.”

  “It is you who has been following me.�
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  “Following you?” he asked. “I would have been, had I known you were out here, skulking around after curfew.”

  “I am not skulking.”

  “Then tell me what it is you are doing.”

  She lifted her chin, but her eyes—those brown eyes Gibb so admired—had difficulty meeting his. “I went to visit my brother-in-law’s grave. To mourn over him.”

  He did not believe her story for a moment.

  “A vagrant has been spotted near here,” he said, sheathing his dagger. Unfortunately, Gibb had not located the fellow’s hiding place, and the watch had, so far, also not uncovered the man. “You risk your life by walking about at night.” He cocked his head and considered her. “Unless you intend to discover this fellow’s whereabouts yourself in order to obtain reward from the Crown.”

  As Fulke Crofton had done when he had informed upon the Langhams. It would be difficult this time to link the vagrant’s presence to the Langhams, however; Gibb had not found a fresh priest hole at Langham Hall either.

  “How might I gain reward by discovering the whereabouts of some vagabond, Constable?” she asked.

  “He is rumored to be a Jesuit. Need I say more?”

  His reply startled her into silence. But silence, for Mistress Ellyott, did not appear to ever last long.

  “No,” she replied. “Nonetheless, the vagabond’s identity is not my concern. As I said, Constable, I went to visit Fulke’s grave. I risked being prevented from my task should I venture there during the day.”

  So she intended to continue with her tale. Which made him question all the more what it was she sought to hide. “I am curious how the spade you have tucked at your waist assisted your visit.”

  A blush stole across her cheeks, and she pressed her lips together.

  “The law does not look kindly upon attempts to unearth the body of a criminal,” he said.

  She wrapped her cloak tightly about her. “You will find Fulke where the churchwarden and his men left him, Constable. For how would I, a lone woman, be able to haul him away?” she asked bitterly. “Go see for yourself, if you do not believe me.”