“I know that as well, Mistress,” she said.
Ellyn’s eyes scanned the small but comfortable chamber. A bed, a pair of stools, a trunk, and a little table with a pottery pitcher and basin atop it occupied the space. When Margery came to stay overnight, she used this room.
“Where is my kirtle, Mistress Ellyott?” Ellyn asked, plucking at the blanket covering her. “And my petticoats?”
“We took them away. My servant will try to clean your skirts with ox gall and alum, but I fear the blood might have permanently stained the fabric,” said Bess gently. “You have lost your child, Mistress.”
“My … my …” Ellyn’s voice came out a croak. Her head drooped.
“There is no need for shame,” said Bess, lowering the flagon to the chamber’s wooden floor. “Many young women find themselves in this situation. Your husband—”
“I have no husband.”
Ah. As I’d thought. “Then mayhap it is for the best that you have lost the child.”
Ellyn lifted her gaze to Bess’s face. “Think you so, Mistress Ellyott?”
“Unless you wished to marry the child’s father, and now that will not be as likely,” she ventured.
“No. I have no need at all to marry the child’s father now.”
Ellyn’s color was returning to her cheeks. She would need more than herb-infused wine to regain her strength, though.
“You are fortunate that you have not suffered any serious effects from your … your illness, Mistress Ellyn. I trust you shall fully recover,” said Bess. “But I would have my servant inform your family that you are here with us, and that you are safe.”
“They will not care.”
“Is that why you will not give your name? You do not wish me to contact them?”
Ellyn’s fingers, with their well-tended nails, curled a corner of the blanket. Though her nails were groomed and clean, her hands had not the smooth skin of a wealthy woman of leisure. She had seen work, but Bess did not imagine her to be a servant.
“They will care that I am gone, but only my brother will spare a thought for my well-being. The rest will be happy,” she said.
A statement made with sad resignation. It should not be like this in the world, where a woman like her could feel so easily cast aside. But Bess well knew the world was very ready to cast aside those who might not conform.
“You may stay with us as long as you need, Ellyn. But I cannot keep you in secret here forever, hiding from whatever it is you have fled.”
“I will leave as soon as I am able. I do not wish to burden you.”
“You are no burden, Mistress Ellyn. Life, though, has taught me that our pasts always tend to catch us up.” Bess leaned toward her. “Tell me where you have come from, Ellyn, and what happened to your child.”
She would not ask if the woman had meant to be rid of the infant. The babe was gone and placing blame would not restore it.
Her eyes searched Bess’s face. “Would you believe me if I said I am not certain?”
“I might.”
“I am not certain. I do not recall,” she insisted. “I remember getting ill and bleeding. I remember thinking of you, because of what you have done for others in the town and what Margery had said about your kindness. I remember coming here by the path along the river. But as for before …” She pressed her lips together. “I would not be accused of killing the child, Mistress.”
“I am not here to accuse you, Ellyn.” Such a charge would bring the swiftest of condemnation, with hanging as punishment.
She reached for Bess’s forearm. “You must help me, Mistress. I beg you. Help me.”
“You have come to me, and I shall do what I can. Certes, I shall,” said Bess. “This I vow, for it is my calling. Trust me.”
Ellyn gave a nod and released her grip.
Bess rose from the stool. “I will send my servant Joan to you with some thin gruel. Let her know if your stomach is not ready for the food, though.”
Collecting the flagon and cup, she headed for the door.
“Mistress Ellyott, will you tell the constable that I am here?”
Bess looked back at her. “I suspect he will discover your presence, Mistress.”
“But you will not tell him.”
“I said I would help you. So, no,” she said. “I shall not tell him.”
But Humphrey undoubtedly would.
* * *
“How did you come to have the purse and belt, old man?” asked Kit, his breath clouding in the damp morning air.
He leaned through the open door to the circular building that served as the town jail. Jellis hunched in a heap against the far wall, his moth-eaten coat wrapped tightly around his scrawny frame, holding his head in his bony hands. The night had passed, but the fellow still smelled of strong drink.
“I know not,” he said.
“They fell from the sky, mayhap?”
Jellis peered at Kit through the thin strands of greasy hair that hung down around his pallid face. He looked ill.
“I know not,” he repeated. Half of his teeth were missing, and the half that still clung to his gums were rotted.
“They belonged to a man stabbed to death last night,” said Kit. “Found dead a dozen paces from where you slept. Did you kill him for the coins within the purse?”
“Nay! I killed no one,” he protested, and pushed himself upright against the stone wall at his back. “I had a little sup of beer, then fell asleep. I did hear noises, but there always be noises amongst the trees at night.”
He’d drunk more than a small amount of beer. “Mayhap you do not recall what you did while you were deep in your cups,” said Kit. “You were in the woods, spotted Bartholomew Reade, and thought to thieve from him.”
Jellis gaped at Kit. “’Tis Bartholomew Reade who be dead?”
“Yes.”
Tears formed in his eyes. They spilled down his haggard, hollow cheeks. “I knew him as a young lad. A witty boy and high-spirited. He cannot be dead, though. He left.”
“He returned with a troupe of actors three days ago.”
“Poor lad. Poor, poor lad.” He squinted at Kit. “But could it be that woman what killed him?”
CHAPTER 4
“Tell me you have found the knife, Gibb,” said Kit, wiping ink off the tip of his quill and returning it to its stand. He’d been attempting to review his farm accounts since returning from the jail, but instead had spent most of the time staring out the window above his writing desk, lost in thought.
Gibb stood at the room’s doorway. “Nay, for none are willing to venture out in this fog.”
It hung thick over the market square, muffling the usual sound of sellers’ cries and wooden wheels over cobble. “I thought everyone believes Old Jellis is our killer. What have they to fear, out in the fog? Surely not a murderer.”
“The witch?”
“Druids, perhaps?”
“Aye, Kit. Mock me if you will. I regret ever mentioning druids to you,” said Gibb. “The fog is lifting, though, and I have offered to pay a pence to anyone who finds the weapon.”
“We’ll be brought chipped kitchen knives and rusty daggers if you’re offering money, Gibb.”
“Marry, coz, I know not why I assist you. Be certain I shall warn Frances of your ill temper and tell her to return with her friend to Gloucester.”
“Ah, now we know the reason your sister wishes to visit me,” said Kit. “A friend. A female one, no doubt.”
Gibb did not refute Kit’s conclusion.
“Want you that I retract my offer of a reward?” his cousin asked.
“No, Gibb, no. I am merely in an ill temper, as you say. Another murder in but a month.”
“At least Mistress Ellyott is not involved in this one,” said Gibb. Last time it had been her brother-in-law killed.
“Give her time. She likely will be,” Kit replied.
“I spoke with Master Reade’s father this morn. He was too distraught to bring forward the name o
f anyone who might have harmed his son. He is content to have Old Jellis accused,” said Gibb. “This is a wretched, sad business, Kit.”
As he well knew. Work that had soured them both, he more than Gibb. They were no longer the young, reckless men they’d once been, readily amused by life’s follies.
“The old man claims he saw a woman at the mound. Can I believe a drunkard like him, though?”
“Did he give a description?” asked Gibb.
“Of typical size, wearing a dark flowing gown. She may as well have been a forest fairy, given what he saw. Or did not see,” said Kit. “He was deep in his cups. I’d likely see mysterious women if I was as drunk as he’d been. But it is not just the knife we hunt for, Gibb. We search for the murderer’s clothing, which should be spattered with blood. It’s possible the killer discarded his outermost garment somewhere to be rid of it.”
“I shall tell the lads to search for such an item, as well.”
Soft footsteps out in the passageway drew Gibb’s attention. He stepped aside to allow Alice to peek around the doorcase. Kit had hired a mouse, not a maidservant. “Master Harwoode, a man has come to the kitchen door to speak with you.”
“Who, Alice? What is his name?”
“He says he is Humphrey Knody, and that he has come from Master Marshall’s house,” she said. “’Tis about the man who was murdered.”
Gibb snorted a laugh. “Not much time at all for our Mistress Ellyott.”
Kit stood. “This fellow has information for me?”
“Aye.” Alice paled—which Kit had thought impossible, given the usual whiteness of her skin—and swallowed hard before answering. “He has brought a bloodied dress for you to see.”
* * *
“Mistress, I have learned of no woman missing from any household, so we have not a name for our guest,” whispered Joan, casting a glance toward the kitchen’s beamed ceiling. Above them rested a recovering young woman.
“Mistress Ellyn cannot hear us, Joan. You need not whisper,” said Bess. She leaned into the manchet bread dough she was kneading for Joan to take to the baker’s. Robert’s kitchen was well outfitted save for a decent oven.
“Though I learned naught of our guest, Mistress, I did hear most unhappy news.” Joan clasped her hands at her waist. “A man’s body was found yestereven.”
Bess ceased kneading. Jesu. Last night. When a desperate young woman had come to their gate.
“What of this body that has been found?” Bess asked, despite Robert’s pleas that she not get involved in matters that did not concern her. But what if this matter did concern her?
“The man was stabbed many times. And into his neck was thrust a reed pen,” added Joan. “He was found atop the hillock that lies just outside of town, on the road to Avebury.”
Bess had walked by the very hillock only yesterday, on her way to tend to Anna. Robert had once regaled her with tales explaining the mound’s existence. Some said it had been the base of a fort from the time of King Arthur and much taller than it was now. Others claimed it was a holy site for the druids who had long ago practiced their beliefs in the area, while others were convinced it was a burial mound for ancient peoples. None of the tales had ever encouraged Bess to want to get nearer to the hill. The mound seemed ever cloaked in shadows and mists. Whenever she passed, she’d go by as hastily as possible.
Bess resumed kneading the loaf. “Who was he?”
“Bartholomew Reade. A son of one of the local farmers. He had left to make his fortune, but had returned a few days ago with the traveling players who had come to town,” she explained. “An old drunkard sits in the jail accused of the crime, Mistress. However …”
Bess looked over at her. “However?”
“Could a weak, aged fellow overpower a young man like Master Reade?”
“Not likely.”
“Mistress, I must also say this, for others will mark it as suspicious,” said Joan. “But the same night that a man was slain, Mistress Ellyn came to our door covered in blood.”
They would, were they to know. For even Bess had come to wonder.
“Mistress Ellyn miscarried a child. She was not covered in Master Reade’s blood,” she said. “You and I are the only ones, besides Ellyn, who know her clothing was blood-streaked. None will mark her arrival at our house as suspicious.”
Joan pressed her lips into a grim line. “Her kirtle is gone from where I hid it, Mistress. Humphrey must have become suspicious of why we had so hastily removed her skirts and secreted them away,” she said. “What if he has taken it to the constable?”
A bitter lump settled in Bess’s stomach. “The old drunkard will not be viewed as guilty for long, Joan. They will come for Ellyn.”
“What are we to do?”
“Constable Harwoode is a fair and honest man, and we must convince him of her innocence.” Bess scrubbed bits of dough from her fingers. “Ellyn is a friend of Margery. I can do no less for her.”
But how to convince him?
* * *
Kit rapped his knuckles against the thick oak door, the bundled kirtle tucked beneath his arm. Across the way, one of Mistress Ellyott’s neighbors peered through her ground-floor window. She bobbed from side to side to see around the mullions that hampered her clear view of him. Down the lane, a man pushing a handcart halted to note that the constable visited the Marshall house. Kit nodded at the fellow, sending him bustling onward.
Mistress Ellyott’s servant, Joan Barbor, answered the door. Her gaze flicked to the bloodied skirts he carried. She did not appear surprised to see him or them.
“Come into the hall, Constable,” she said, offering a curtsy. She led him through the short passageway beyond the entry and turned right into the hall. The sun had burned away the remainder of the morning fog and lit the room in warming light. “Prithee, wait here while I fetch my mistress.”
She departed, the jangle of the keys suspended from her girdle and the sound of her footfalls across the stone flooring becoming faint. Their brown-and-white dog wandered in from another room and came to greet Kit, tail wagging. Kit scratched the dog’s ears. The dog sniffed the clothing Kit held and ceased wagging its tail.
“It’s an unhappy load I carry,” he said to the animal. “And I wonder what your mistress will have to say about it and its owner.”
“I shall say there is an innocent, although sad, explanation for the blood upon that kirtle, Constable Harwoode.”
Bess Ellyott stood in the doorway, her shoulders squared within her gown and her gaze unflinching. Gibb had once referred to her eyes as “fine.” His cousin had overlooked their greatest feature—intelligence. Facing her made Kit realize how much he’d missed those intelligent eyes and their owner. Despite his efforts to convince himself he’d no room in his overbusy life for a woman.
The dog ambled over to sit at her side. Kit bowed, which caused her frown to soften a trifle.
“Good morrow, Mistress. I see you are well.”
“And you also, Constable.” Her frown returned. “As I said, there is an innocent explanation for the blood, though not a happy one.”
“I’m prepared to hear the explanation.”
“The young woman who owned the gown miscarried her child. She required my help.”
“This woman came to your door?” he asked. “Why not instead call you to her house to attend to her?”
Mistress Ellyott paused. Ah. She holds on to a secret about this woman.
“Need I supply the obvious answer to your question, Constable?”
He set the bloodied kirtle atop a nearby stool. “Your manservant tells me that the woman is a vagrant.”
“It pains me that Humphrey sought to tattle to you behind my back,” she said stiffly. “And he is my brother’s manservant, not mine.”
“Nonetheless, is his observation the obvious answer to my question? She has no home hereabouts?”
“She will not tell us where she has come from. She is afraid to name her family. Out of fear for t
heir scorn, I suspect. And that is the obvious answer.” She held up a hand to stay his next words. “And before you discourse upon what the law requires, I am aware that, should she be a vagrant, she must be driven from my home like a rabid cur. But she is unwell, and I will not allow you to cause her more harm by prying her from the chamber where she rests.”
Bess Ellyott was a bold one. Other men, men like his father, would say she was difficult and should better know her place. Kit was not his father, though, and she both vexed him and intrigued him. She had from the moment they’d met. Why was it, then, that a fresh murder was required to bring them together again?
Perhaps because he’d chosen to avoid her. Not always easy to achieve in a town this small.
“You are certain the blood was hers,” he said. “A witness claims to have seen a woman near the mound where the dead man was discovered.”
“I am enough of a healer, Constable, to read the signs that a woman has miscarried,” she answered. “I have heard about the man who was murdered, and that you have arrested some fellow for the crime. Why suspect my patient?”
“I have my doubts about the vagrant’s guilt.”
Mistress Ellyott leveled her gaze at him. “This witness … how did he describe the woman?”
Kit cleared his throat; time to admit the description Jellis had given was vague and likely not worth believing. “She wore a dark, flowing gown and was of typical size.”
“As you can well see, Constable, the kirtle you have brought is not a dark, flowing gown but watchet-colored,” she said. “Further, she collapsed at our gate, too weak to move. She would not have had the strength to commit murder.”
A logical conclusion. As he would expect from her. “Mayhap I should assess that for myself, Mistress Ellyott.”
* * *
Tying her mantle about her neck, Joan hurried out of the house. She glanced over her shoulder, back at the street-facing windows to see if any noted her passage. ’Twas not the mistress or the constable she sought to evade. It was Humphrey’s prying. He lived to cause her trouble. To cause them all trouble.
“Taking Mistress Ellyn’s kirtle to the constable, not trusting the mistress to do what was right. Devil take him,” she said aloud, uncaring who heard.
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