Searcher of the Dead Page 9

  And what, Bess, will you do with what you felt when his arm encircled you?

  Forget. No doubt at all. Forget.

  The back door opened, and Margery stepped through. Humphrey lifted his cap as she passed.

  “My first thought should have been that I would find you out here, Aunt Bess.” She went to the far corner of the garden to collect another stool, which she placed alongside Bess’s. “How fares my mother?”

  Her niece possessed a proper amount of decorum and kept her feet tucked beneath her skirts. Mayhap I remain a trifle difficult to govern. Certes, Robert would say as much.

  “Better than I expected.” Bess sat up straight and slid her feet toward the stool, flicking the hem of her petticoat over her ankles. “She holds great faith that I … that the constable will prove the manner of your stepfather’s death and your family will not lose all you own.”

  “Has the constable promised to investigate?”

  ’Twas the question of the moment. “I would that I knew for certain.”

  The back door opened again, and Joan hurried across the courtyard to Bess and Margery.

  “Mistress,” she bobbed a hasty curtsy. “Bennett Langham has come. To speak with Mistress Margery.”

  Standing, Bess glanced at her niece, whose cheeks had gone pink.

  “I pray you do not mind that I speak with him, Aunt Bess,” said Margery, the set of her face indicating she was willing to defy Bess should her aunt refuse the meeting.

  Only because Robert was not at home would Bennett Langham dare come there. Robert supported Dorothie’s plans to wed Margery elsewhere. The most recent candidate was a distant cousin of theirs, a curate in need of a new wife to mind his four young children. He had visited once to meet Margery. Bess appreciated the practicality of the potential union, but she could not help feeling that Margery had been put on display like a ewe or a filly on market day. Margery had felt likewise.

  However, an entanglement between Margery and a Langham would never do.

  “Your mother would not be pleased with me if I permit this visit, Margery,” Bess said.

  Margery clung to Bess’s arm. “I will not tell her. And Joan will not tell her either. Will you, Joan?”

  Joan shook her head. Her scars, her past miseries had not stopped her from being tender-hearted when it came to love. “I will not speak, Mistress Margery, but what of …?” She twitched her head to indicate Humphrey.

  “He will tell my brother, who will in turn inform your mother,” Bess said to Margery.

  “I am willing to chance that,” she said. “Prithee, Aunt Bess. For a brief few minutes only.”

  Bess relented. Her niece’s pleadings ever weakened her defenses as surely as a battering ram, and she knew it. “Under my supervision.”

  Margery dashed off, and Bess rushed after her.

  As she entered the parlor, Bennett Langham made a leg. “Mistress Ellyott.”

  She could not fault his manners or his appearance. He was a tall and handsome fellow. She also thought him sensible and genuinely affectionate toward her niece. Which softened Bess’s heart as much as Margery’s pleadings had done.

  “Good day to you, Master Langham. What brings you here?” Bess asked.

  “I would offer you condolences on the loss of your brother-in-law.” He spoke the words to her, but his gaze did not leave Margery’s face. “And to Mistress Margery on the loss of her stepfather. My mother extends her good wishes as well.”

  ’Twas generous, indeed, for the woman who must condemn Fulke for the death of her husband to extend good wishes.

  “My thanks,” said Bess. “You are both most kind.”

  “I would be less than honest to pretend I feel grief over Master Crofton’s death,” he said. “But, upon my honor, I did not wish harm to befall him.”

  “I am glad to hear you say so.”

  “Condolences are not the sole reason I have come,” he said. “The constable and his cousin visited us at Langham Hall yesterday.”

  “Why?” asked Margery fretfully.

  “A vagrant has been seen in the area,” he answered.

  “Ah.” Bess regarded Bennett Langham. She saw resolve in his bearing. And secrecy. “Does the constable suspect you of hiding this fellow? He has told me the vagrant is rumored to be a Jesuit.”

  “You understand.” He smiled softly at Margery. “It is unwise for you to be seen in my company. At such a time.”

  “No, Bennett.” She made to grasp his hand but quickly thought better of the impulse. “Did they find anything? No, for you would not be free to walk about if they had.”

  “I will see that my niece heeds your advice, Master Langham. Fare you well.”

  He bowed and departed. Bess grabbed Margery’s hand to keep her from following.

  “I thought you liked him,” said her niece.

  “My question had naught to do with whether or not I like him,” Bess said. “And Bennett was not angered by it.”

  “He should have been, since you want to discover if he had a reason to fear my stepfather. Because of some vagrant who might be a priest,” she said. “And now that you have tried to convince the constable that my stepfather was murdered, he will suspect Bennett.”

  Bess eyed her. “Do you fear that Bennett could be responsible?”

  With a jerk of her chin, Margery marched from the room.

  Answer enough.

  * * *

  “I and my jury have made our ruling. You were there, Constable,” said the coroner. “I must presume Mistress Crofton has come to you, begging pity for her situation.”

  The fellow, whom Kit had found in the man’s privy office, wrapped his long black robe tighter about his bones to ward off the room’s chill. If he would bring a chafing dish set with hot coals into the room, he might not be so cold. Kit suspected the coroner did not lack the funds to warm the space; he merely preferred the moral comforts of being a miser.

  “Mistress Crofton has not come to me,” said Kit. “I act on information I have learned from Mistress Ellyott.”

  “Ah, her.” The coroner lifted an eyebrow. “The herbalist.”

  Kit was thankful he did not call her a witch.

  “How well did you examine Fulke Crofton’s neck?” he asked.

  The coroner frowned. “I saw that it had been bruised from the rope. No one had slit it.”

  Droll. “I have learned that Master Crofton had numerous enemies. Yet you did not demand that those assembled reveal the name of any who might wish to kill him.”

  “Why might I do so when it was clear the man had killed himself?”

  “There were two lines, Crowner. Two distinct lines about his throat made from two very different cords,” said Kit. “I have seen them myself this morning,” he added before the man could interrupt.

  The coroner looked appalled. “You dug up the fellow to look upon his neck?”

  “Did you notice the two lines?”

  “This is impertinent. I always did doubt your cousin’s idea to recommend you for the post of constable, Master Harwoode, as did several of the other burgesses. They consented only because Sir Walter insisted.” His frown became a deep scowl that creased his face. “’Tis a blessing you serve for only two years.”

  Wat might agree. “And what of Master Crofton’s hat?”

  “There was no hat.”

  “Precisely so, yet he left the house that morning with one upon his head. My men have searched for it and not found it.”

  The coroner dismissed Kit’s remark with a wave of his hand. “Someone came along and found it near the body. A valuable item like a fine hat could be worth fifteen, twenty shillings.”

  “So this person stole the hat but did not pause to take anything else from the body.”

  “They had not the stomach for it. They grabbed up the hat and ran.” The coroner smirked, pleased to have an answer. “’Tis simple enough to reason out, Constable.”

  Kit scowled. It was clear he would have to identify the killer
before he could convince the coroner to overturn his ruling. The man would never admit to a mistake unless forced to.

  * * *

  An hour after Bennett’s visit, Margery remained closeted in the chamber she borrowed. She had not responded to Bess’s pleas to come out.

  She is young and longs to follow her heart. As I once did.

  “Ah, Margery. I pray Bennett is worthy of your love.”

  Bess opened the door to the still room. The various aromas she could always conjure whenever she thought of them—those of fennel and marjoram, wormwood and lavender, licorice and aniseed, and so many others—greeted her. Bess had been instructing Margery on the secrets of distillation, a woman’s work should she be able to afford such fine equipment as filled this room. They had planned to make aqua vitae today, the most important of waters. Perhaps if Margery heard Bess working in the still room, she might repent of her upset and join Bess.

  Bess slid wide the shutters covering the unglazed windows, letting in the light. Tying on a heavy holland apron, she proceeded to select the ingredients she required. The “water of life” was meant to ease aches in the bones and calm the symptoms of cold sickness. Bess had once cured a neighbor’s child of the colic with aqua vitae. It had done nothing to ease the catarrh when Bess’s daughters had first taken ill, however. Nor had the powders of peppers and caraway seeds healed their coughs as they had worsened. She had failed them, and now she fought her self-doubt. Yet she would not abandon the work that gave her life meaning and solace.

  “Mistress.”

  Bess had not heard Joan’s tap upon the doorframe.

  “You are called to Langham Hall,” said Joan. “One of Mistress Langham’s kitchen servants has cut her hand and craves your skills.”

  “Why does she not send for the surgeon?”

  “I asked the same of the man who brought the message,” she said. “He says the girl is afraid of the surgeon. She blames him for killing her mother when he tried to remove a great stone in the woman’s bladder and she bled to death.”

  Bess gazed longingly at her still. The preparation of the aqua vitae would have to wait.

  “Joan, help me gather my salve of turpentine and cloves. And I shall have need of my flaxen thread and a set of clean stitching quills.”

  Bess stripped off her apron and folded it aside. How peculiar the timing of this request, when Bennett had been to their house just an hour earlier. But to presume a servant had intentionally cut herself so that Bess could be summoned to Langham Hall was preposterous.

  Nonetheless, as she collected her squares of linen bandaging, she found herself intrigued. Most intrigued.

  * * *

  “The tavern is not open yet, Constable Harwoode,” said the owner, standing inside the doorway. “Or are you here to see our Marcye?”

  Master Johnes had a lean face and eyes as sharp as his daughter’s, making him look more the part of a schoolmaster than a tavern keeper. He glanced over his shoulder at Marcye, who scrubbed tables and pretended to not be looking their way.

  “She is a fair girl,” said Kit. “As fair as Marcye is, though, I am here to speak with you, Master Johnes.”

  “Well, you know you’d be welcome to share a meal with us any a night, Constable, should you desire to,” he said. “Marcye, fetch some of the boiled hare for the constable. And a spoon. The constable has not brought his own.”

  Blushing, she hurried off for the tavern’s kitchen. Kit and her father crossed the empty room to a table by the window.

  With a groan, Master Johnes lowered himself to the table’s bench. He bent down to rub his knees. He noticed Kit looking. “These old bones.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Which is why I need a son to take over this place.”

  A son like me. “Your other daughters’ husbands have no interest?”

  “Not the ones they’ve married.” He sighed. “You know Marcye lost her husband in the Low Countries. I had hopes for that one. Ah, well.”

  His daughter returned with two pottery bowls of food, one for each of them, dipped a curtsy, and walked off. But not too far.

  “Feel free to speak,” said the tavern keeper. “You’ve no need to mind her. She works in a tavern. She knows how to keep secrets.”

  Kit took a bite of the hare, swimming in a broth flavored with herbs and onions and currants. “Very good,” he said to Master Johnes. Far better than the typical fare.

  The man smiled. “From our own dinner, Constable. Not what I’d serve the usual sort who come in here and get too drunk to enjoy my wife’s cooking.”

  After several bites—he’d not eaten more than a meager hunk of cheat bread to break his fast that morning, and he was hungry—Kit set down the spoon. “I would ask you about Master Crofton.”

  “Ah.” Master Johnes finished chewing. “But I do not understand how his death is a matter for you to be concerned with.”

  “Let us just say I am curious about a matter.”

  The tavern keeper waved his spoon to encourage Kit to continue and then bent to scooping up his meal.

  “I have heard that he had an argument with a fellow the night before he died,” said Kit. “Here at the Cross Keys.”

  “Aye, that night. What a great fight there was.” Master Johnes squinted at Kit. “’Tis lucky for me you did not hear of it, for I’d have had to pay a terrible fine!”

  “We shall let that pass.”

  The other man tipped his cap at Kit. “Well, as to Crofton, he was drinking more than he ought. My wife told me to not refill his tankard, but a sale is a sale. I should have listened.” He nibbled more of the hare, looking reflective as he chewed. “’Twas about halfway through his third … mayhap fourth tankard that all that talk of going to Devizes for an ‘important’ meeting started. That fluffed some fur.”

  “What did he say about this meeting?”

  “He need not say much. Everyone knew he was going there to meet with a solicitor about his complaint against Stamford.”

  As Mistress Ellyott had said. “Details?”

  “He and Stamford have been battling, they have, ever since Crofton became the largest wool merchant in this area. Jealous, Stamford was. Aye.” Master Johnes nodded sagely.

  “Tell me about this complaint,” Kit prodded.

  “Well, Stamford owed Crofton money. He’d been crediting Stamford for the wool the fellow was buying to supply his weavers in Chippenham. I heard, though, that Stamford had fallen behind on his payments. An investment had failed and left him short of funds. Rather than entreat Crofton for new terms, Stamford accused him of selling inferior wool not worth the price charged. Worse still, he was trying to convince other clothiers and weavers to not buy from Crofton, too,” he said, shaking his head over the schemes of men. “That is what I’ve heard, Constable. Though there may have been some merit to Stamford’s claims. Crofton never accused him of slander, now, did he? I was never much fond of Crofton, ’tis certain, for he had a foul temper. Could start a fight with a painted image of a saint.”

  “So Crofton’s meeting in Devizes was a threat to Stamford.” Stamford’s standing as a merchant in this town would be damaged if such a suit came to pass and Stamford faulted. If he stood accused of not paying his debts, only a fool would wish to work with him. But was that sufficient reason to kill?

  Master Johnes wiped food residue from his mouth with the backs of his fingers. “Stamford was furious that night. Threw his tankard, he did! A bad aim, luckily for Crofton’s skull,” he said. “Stamford’s not free of those debts, though, as your good cousin Sir Walter has taken them over along with the rest of Crofton’s goods. Though Sir Walter might be forgiving, as he and Stamford are mates.”

  “Master Johnes, as you have mentioned Sir Walter, what do you know of a dispute between him and Fulke Crofton?”

  “Oh, that! Sir Walter desired a slice of land that Crofton owned. Hard by the river. But Crofton would not sell it. Would not even lease it to him. I’d heard there had been threats leveled,” he said. “But you did n
ot hear about those threats from me, Kit Harwoode. I’d not have your cousin call me a gossip and have you slap me in the stocks. Or worse.”

  “I shall say naught to him.” Wat would not get that land though. The law left it and Crofton’s empty house in his wife’s hands. Frustrating Wat, no doubt.

  “Wonder if Mistress Crofton will be prepared to deal, as she will be in need of money now,” the tavern keeper mused.

  Kit, you are stupid. Certes, she would deal, and Wat would win again.

  “So to be clear,” said Kit, “the night before Fulke Crofton died, Stamford was in this tavern and heard Crofton boast of his plan to go to Devizes the next morning.” The journey a possible opportunity for Stamford to accost Crofton at a distance from town.

  Master Johnes narrowed his gaze. “Why ask you all these questions, Constable? You make me think Crofton’s death … God ’a mercy!”

  “Stamford was in here and had learned of Crofton’s pending travel,” Kit repeated.

  “He was not the only fellow who might have been interested in Fulke Crofton’s plan to travel, Constable,” the tavern keeper said, his brows lifting. “Sir Walter was here that night, too.”

  “My cousin was here?” A man who’d once before proved to be dangerous.

  “Indeed so, Constable,” said Master Johnes. “Indeed so.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A young female servant showed Bess into the entryway of Langham Hall.

  “Through here,” the girl said, leading Bess through the screens passage.

  Through the break in the passage’s partition, she could see the hall. It was a room possessed of fringed silk cushions, a long table covered in a patterned carpet, and oak paneling upon the wall. Above the paneling, there were empty expanses, the outlines of tapestries and painted cloths that had once hung upon the plaster, now ghostly reminders. The valuable items had been sold to pay Mistress Langham’s debts to the Crown, Bess supposed, for daring to defiantly cling to the religion she so loved yet that had caused her husband’s death.