Searcher of the Dead Page 8

  “If I were a superstitious fellow, I would think you plotted some unholy scheme. Mistress Ellyott, you must admit your actions are strange.”

  “I am an herbalist, not a witch, Constable Harwoode. I plot no unholy scheme.”

  “Then be truthful about the reason you went to his grave,” he said, shifting to a more comfortable stance. “I can stand here however long is required.”

  She returned his stare. He would add fearless to the attributes he had ascribed to her. And her eyes were fine, even in dim lantern light.

  “Meet me at his grave in the morning,” she said. “Two hours past sunrise, and I will show you my response.”

  “A prospect I am looking forward to. Come.” He took her elbow. “Let me guide you home. I’d not wish you to become lost upon the way and wander off again.”

  “You will not arrest me for breaking curfew?”

  “I find myself astonishingly generous this night.”

  She accompanied him without protest. When they arrived, he was not at all surprised that the servant who opened the door was fully dressed.

  “I will speak with you and Master Marshall on the morrow,” he said to Mistress Ellyott.

  “My brother has gone to London.”

  Leaving her free to ramble as she pleased. “Do not break curfew again, Mistress. I will not be so gracious a second time. And you,” he said to her servant, “keep her here lest I lock you both in the stocks.”

  * * *

  “Bess …”

  His voice was a raspy whisper, like the rustle of dry leaves, as the sound fought to leave his throat.

  “Bess.”

  “Hush, my darling.” She sat upon the floor by the settle and gripped his hand. It was clammy, and her heart seized with the knowledge he was dying.

  He tried to reach up to dry her tears, but he could not lift his hand. The poison, the purging, had weakened him. Nothing she had given him had healed the ill Laurence had wrought.

  “Do not,” he croaked. “Do not blame …”

  “Hush.”

  “Bess … Laurence …”

  His life left his body on a breath of air. He was gone.

  She heard Joan wail into her apron. Her own sobs joined her servant’s, her tears streaming as she raised her eyes to look upon him. But his face. His face had changed, twisted, turned into Fulke’s face.

  She recoiled, a cry of alarm sticking in her throat.

  Bess woke with a start, her heart pounding, and sat upright. The nub of a candle burned at her bedside. Its dim light showed the clothes she had hastily discarded after returning from Fulke’s grave and telling Joan and Margery the grim news. As though doffing her kirtle and cloak could rid her of the reality of Fulke’s death.

  “Dearest Lord. Blessed Jesus. What have I done?”

  She snuffed the flame and dropped back against her pillows, dragging the sheets and the blanket up about her body. The image of the deep bruising line around Fulke’s throat filled her mind. She had searched the dead and had discovered the ugly truth. That was what she had done. Learned afresh the evils of the world.

  On the morrow, she would have to persuade the constable to believe her conclusions. And that she intended no “unholy schemes” but sought only the truth. And justice.

  * * *

  “Mistress, have you taken the lantern that usually hangs by the stable door?” Humphrey, his head slightly bowed, peered up at Bess. “It is gone and that … and Joan says she does not know what has happened to it.”

  Bess stood in the passageway, readying herself to visit Dorothie and deliver her news. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Joan in the parlor to her left, eavesdropping.

  No clever explanation came to her mind. “I am in a hurry, Humphrey. If you cannot locate this missing lantern, I will have my brother replace it when he returns.”

  “Aye, Mistress.” Frowning, he bowed and shuffled off through the hall.

  Joan rushed into the passageway to help fasten Bess’s hat upon her coif. Her cloak hung near the door. Joan had cleaned the dirt from it before the sun had risen that morn, wiping away the evidence of Bess’s late-night excursion.

  “Take care, Mistress.”

  “Do not fret over the constable’s threats to place us in the stocks. The dog that barks does not bite.”

  “I am not so troubled by him.” Her world-weary eyes reflected that they had entered upon a freshly dark world. “Take care.”

  “And you do not permit Humphrey to bully you.”

  Joan allowed herself a smile. “Have I ever?”

  The walk to Dorothie’s house required passing through town and taking the eastern road. Bess felt eyes upon her as she strode briskly across the market square. Mistress Stamford stared from her shop window. The baker from whom they bought their bread returned her greeting with a blank look.

  So this was how matters would be.

  She arrived at Dorothie’s house, a modest but comfortable manor built of stone and timber-framing, and rapped hard upon the portal. Her pounding was answered by a man Bess did not recognize, who squared his shoulders beneath his quilted jacket and glared.

  “I must speak with Mistress Crofton. I am her sister.”

  He had narrow-set eyes and weather-worn skin. “I have been told to allow none to enter while the queen’s work is under way.”

  “I beg you, sir, let me in,” she said. “My errand is most urgent.”

  He grunted and moved aside. “She is in her hall, weeping and cursing.”

  Bess heard Dorothie then, shouting at someone to put down an item.

  Thanking the fellow, Bess hurried through the vestibule and into the hall to her left. Her sister was no longer weeping but pounding fists against a bandy-legged man who held a stack of table linens in his arms.

  “Put those back in the trunk now!” she demanded. “I have told you over and over that I own but four cloths plus ten linen napkins. You need not count them!”

  “Dorothie!” Bess rushed to her side and took hold of her arm. “My apologies, she is distressed.”

  The man glowered and marched the linens over to the massive hall table, where every object once contained within chests and trunks was spread across its surface.

  “Come away,” said Bess, putting her arm around Dorothie’s waist. “Have your servant bring you some malmsey to restore your strength, and we shall sit in your parlor until you are recovered.”

  “There are men in my parlor, too,” she said, sniffling. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “And I shall not ever recover.” She blew her nose and looked at Bess above its square of linen. “You are here with news. Tell me what you found.”

  “Let us go to the parlor and sit. Perhaps we can convince the fellow within to leave us in peace.”

  Dorothie’s manservant, Roland, stood by the set of parlor windows that overlooked the side garden, the green outside broken into diamond shapes by the panes of glass. He was tall and sober, with a jutting chin and intense clear eyes, which broke off from watching another of the Crown’s men paw through Dorothie’s cupboard to observe their arrival.

  “Roland, have Lucy bring a glass of malmsey for your mistress,” said Bess.

  Owning excellent manners, far better than most servants one might employ in this area of the country, he gave a polite bow and glided out of the room.

  “Sir, if you could but leave us for a short while,” Bess said to the man who’d not paused in his inspection of the cupboard. “Out of respect for the widow.”

  “Don’t take nothin’,” he grumbled and departed. Bess followed him to make certain he did not linger outside the parlor and shut the door.

  Dorothie dropped onto the crimson-painted chair by the window and looked out it. From here, if she craned her neck, she could see the dead tree that spread its deformed branches above Fulke’s grave. Bess crossed to the curtains and drew them closed; her sister did not need to look upon such a sight.

  “What did you discover?” she asked.
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  “It is as I thought,” said Bess. She straightened her sister’s coif, which she had knocked awry, and tucked a loose strand of hair beneath its edge. “There are two lines upon his neck.”

  Dorothie gasped. “Oh, why, Elizabeth, did this ever have to happen? Does Margery know?”

  “Aye. She took the news passing well.”

  Fingertips tapped upon the door, and Lucy entered with two glasses of malmsey, the wine a deep tawny hue in the parlor’s gloom. “They’d not let me bring a tray to serve you with, Mistress. They say I shall steal it away!”

  Bess took a glass from her.

  “’Tis dreadful,” the girl sniveled. “They be in the buttery now, drinking the cider you just put up.”

  Dorothie snatched the other glass, sloshing wine to the rim, and took a long drink. “See, Elizabeth? See? They mean to rob me before that villain Wat Howe takes all that remains!”

  “Where am I to go?” asked Lucy. “Roland has a place. He’s told me, he has. A house he has inherited in distant Suffolk. And proud he is of it. But what am I to do? None will have me as a servant after this, and I’ve no family to take me in.”

  “Go to, Lucy.” Dorothie swatted at the air. “I care not for your concerns when I and my children will be in the gutter as well.”

  Sobbing into her apron, Lucy dashed from the room.

  “You need not be so harsh,” said Bess. “She has every reason to fear for a position when you cannot provide her a reference, should your situation stand.”

  Abruptly, Dorothie set down her glass and stood. She contemplated the room. “What shall I do without my things, Elizabeth?”

  Wandering about the space, she ran a hand down her velvet curtain, drew fingers across the trestle table set against the wall. She opened the carved oak box that sat upon its surface. The box served no function but to be admired, which was, for Dorothie, the greatest purpose of all. Next, she rubbed at a dull spot on a brass candlestick and fluffed the goose-feather cushions that lined the settle.

  Bess and Dorothie and Robert had come far from the life they had all led in Oxford, the children of a scholar who had spent his earnings upon books and manuscripts. Leaving Mother to replace worn hems and collars and cuffs rather than purchase new clothing with money she did not have.

  Dorothie looked at Bess. “How did you leave so much behind in London without a care?”

  “I have never claimed I did not care, Dorothie.”

  Bess had winnowed the contents of her house to what could be contained within a few compact trunks on the back of a wagon. It had been hired with the proceeds from selling all the rest. A speedy flight had been her goal. Certes, there were moments she missed her embroidered linens and carpets, pewter tableware, and imported glasses. Not as much as Dorothie would miss her possessions, however.

  Suddenly, her sister’s eyes brightened. “But now, after what you have discovered, now I may be able to keep all my goods. Might I not?”

  “Only should I convince the constable of what I believe, and then he must convince the coroner to reverse his ruling. No easy task.”

  “But you shall try.”

  She could not guess what he might think when she showed him Fulke’s body. “I will do what I can.”

  Dorothie took the untouched glass of malmsey from Bess’s hand. “’Tis Arthur Stamford. I know. They fought at the Cross Keys the night before Fulke died.”

  “I have heard about their arguments.”

  “They had taken to quarrels of late. Over the wool Fulke had sold him. Claiming it was inferior. Master Stamford only said that to defend why he’d not repaid the credit Fulke had extended to him. Fulke warned him that he would bring a suit to see that debt repaid. ’Twas what Fulke planned that … that awful day. To go to Devizes to bring a suit against Arthur Stamford.” Dorothie exhaled a sob. “Wool! For that, I have lost a husband! The more I think upon it, the more I know Arthur Stamford killed Fulke. And you must get that constable to believe so, Elizabeth.”

  “I will tell him what you have said and show him what I have seen. That is all I can promise.” Bess leaned down to kiss her sister upon her forehead. “I shall visit again soon.”

  She left the parlor. In the hall beyond, Roland snapped to attention, rotating sharply upon his heel to march ahead of her to the front door, which he opened for her.

  Outside, Bess consulted the sun, which peeked between clouds. It was time for her meeting with the constable.

  * * *

  He was waiting for her at the crossroads, his face stern beneath the hat he wore.

  When she reached him, he briefly lifted it in greeting. “You have no spade with you this morn.”

  “It appears I have forgotten.” She nodded at the scabbard holding his dagger. “Perhaps you will sacrifice your blade for what I have to show you. The digging is not difficult. Most could be accomplished with your hands.”

  He nodded and extended his arm toward the base of the tree. “After you.”

  By the head of Fulke’s gave, she lowered to her knees. Off to her left, a cow stood at the edge of a field and languidly watched them.

  “Here, Constable Harwoode. Dig here, if you will.”

  Kneeling across from her, Kit Harwoode removed his dagger and thrust it into the loose dirt. Soon, he set it down and used his gloved hands instead to pile dirt to one side, making a hole. The winding cloth, beginning to stain with the body’s secretions, quickly came into view.

  “Allow me,” she said, leaning over to unwind the strip of cloth that would reveal Fulke’s throat. It had started to bloat. “Note the two lines that cross his skin. Two lines of differing thickness, and one, the lower one, deeper and darker. To me, that suggests it is the mark of the rope or twine that choked my brother-in-law to death.”

  He examined the lines, his brow furrowing. “A line not caused by a thick hanging rope,” he said. “I owe you an apology, Mistress. For doubting your sister’s belief that a crime might have been committed.”

  Bess nodded her thanks. “I came here last night to confirm what I had observed when we found him,” she said. “Not to practice unholy schemes.”

  “Another apology for thinking I might need to accuse you of witchcraft.” The constable sat back upon his heels. “The coroner had to have seen these lines.”

  She re-covered Fulke’s neck with the cloth. “If he made note of them, why did he not conclude as we have done?”

  Constable Harwoode exhaled and returned his dagger to its sheath. “I will not share my opinion of his skills with you.”

  He pushed the pile of dirt onto the hole he had opened and patted it down. He rose, and so did she.

  “Prithee, persuade the coroner to reverse his finding,” she said. “There is this proof upon Fulke’s neck, and also I have learned that the night before he died, Fulke argued with Arthur Stamford. He is the draper whose shop is near to the market cross. They argued at the Cross Keys. I suspect the fight was due to my brother-in-law’s plans to go to Devizes to employ a solicitor over a debt Master Stamford owed him.”

  The constable brushed his hands together, swiping dirt from his gloves. “Leave this matter to me.”

  Not the reassurance she sought. “Tell me I have convinced you, Constable.”

  “You have given me much to think on,” he answered. “And I will think upon it, Mistress. You can rely on that. But this task is mine to undertake. Not yours.”

  His gaze slid to Fulke’s grave, taking in the mound of dirt that once again concealed the sorry visage of her brother-in-law.

  Searcher of the dead. Fulke had not died by his own hand. And Martin had not perished from the plague.

  “When my husband died, an old woman came to look upon his body for pustules. In the city—London, that is—these poor women are employed to make a count of the plague victims. Only the most desperate embark upon such a deadly task. These women are called ‘searchers of the dead.’” She did not know why she wished to tell him this, but she continued anyway. “I hav
e come to understand a little of how they must feel at the execution of their task. To look upon the dead with such unconcern for the person who once gave breath and warmth to a gone-cold shell—”

  She shuddered. The constable placed an arm about her shoulders and drew her away from Fulke’s grave. She welcomed the comfort of his touch.

  “Come, Mistress Ellyott. Do not compare yourself to that old woman. You are not at all like her.”

  “Am I not, Constable?”

  His eyes were kind as they studied her. “I see no such woman here.”

  A flush spread in response to his words, alarming her. She jerked free from his embrace. “I must hasten home, Constable. They will be missing me.”

  Hiking her skirts, she scrambled over to the road and broke into a run.

  CHAPTER 8

  Bess leaned against the far garden wall and stretched her feet, revealing her stocking-covered ankles beyond the hem of her petticoat. She sat in a flat area of the tended garden bed, where in the summer gillyflowers and Madonna lilies bloomed, in order to think. Or not to think, but rather to drift. Church bells tolled the hour. The neighbor’s infant daughter cried over some hurt, speedily attended to. Across the courtyard, Humphrey perched upon a stool in the courtyard, scrubbing feed buckets clean, occasionally pausing to tut at one of the chickens. When he appeared so affectionate toward the birds, she felt a trifle sorry that one or more of them would become meals during the winter ahead. In any other household, tending to the chickens would be Joan’s task. But Robert’s manservant guarded those birds as attentively as the queen’s Master of the Jewel House guarded its contents. A streak of sentimentality in a fellow who could be so surprisingly angry about the lantern she’d been forced to discard.

  With a sigh, Bess tilted her head back to watch a hawk circle in the cloud-filled sky. To listen to the clatter of wheels out on the roadway beyond the courtyard gate. She should be at her work, as she had much to do. She had shown the constable the lines upon Fulke’s throat and told him about the argument between Fulke and Master Stamford. He had said he would attend to what he had learned.

  Truth be told, however, she had her doubts about the constable’s willingness to be thorough. After all, his cousin stood to gain from Fulke’s suicide. Sir Walter Howe may be displeased to have those goods—which included a warehouse filled with surpassingly fine wool, despite Arthur Stamford’s claims otherwise—snatched away by something so inconvenient as the truth. So, what would Kit Harwoode do—choose family obligations or the proper execution of justice?