He walked behind Mistress Ellyott, who led him to the open gate in the wall surrounding her brother’s garden and yard. Kit passed through, sparing a glance at the quince tree heavy with fruit, the final blooms on the flowers. Not a month ago, he’d sat in this garden with her in a more tranquil time.
“You have found her, Mistress?” asked her brother’s pox-scarred manservant, slouching in the entrance to the long shed that lined one side of the courtyard. He did not sound happy.
“Bring wood for the fire in the hall, Humphrey,” Bess Ellyott ordered.
Kit shifted to step sideways through the rear door, taking care to not knock Ellyn’s legs against its frame. He then carried her into the hall, ducking to clear the low beam above the opening to the room. Their water spaniel rose from his nap beneath the street-side window.
“Here, Constable,” said Mistress Ellyott. “Place Ellyn on the settle for now.”
Joan turned away from the fire she’d been prodding into life to plump cushions for Ellyn Merrick to rest against. Linens had already been spread atop the wooden seat.
Mistress Ellyott’s sister, Mistress Crofton, stood up from the cushioned chair where she’d been sitting. “Constable Harwoode.” Her eyes widened at the sight of the woman he carried. “Is she dead?”
“No, Mistress Crofton,” he said, lowering Ellyn to the high-backed settle.
“Well, that is a relief.”
“No doubt Ellyn agrees, Dorothie,” said Bess Ellyott sharply. Her sister scowled and retook her chair.
Though she resembled Bess Ellyott, Kit could not imagine two women less alike. Mistress Crofton’s presence, though, might keep her sister in check. Someone had to.
Ellyn Merrick drew in a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. “What?” she asked, looking around her. “I am back here?”
“We found you in time, Ellyn,” said Mistress Ellyott. “You should not have taken the knife, though.”
Bloody … “She had a knife with her?” asked Kit.
“Later, Constable.” Bess Ellyott rested a hand upon the woman’s arm while Joan arranged a fresh blanket around Ellyn Merrick’s body. The dog trotted over to give an inquisitive sniff. “You begged me to help you, Ellyn. I cannot do so if you run away from my house and my care. You must trust that I will help you.”
“I am sorry,” Mistress Merrick answered weakly.
“Joan, bring Mistress Ellyn a warm posset.” Mistress Ellyott looked over at Kit. “Constable, I would speak to you alone.”
He followed her out of the hall, across the entry passageway, and into the lesser parlor.
“You found her with a knife?” he asked.
“’Twas only a penknife.” She folded her hands across her girdle. “Nonetheless, we—Joan and I—fear that Ellyn meant to kill herself today, disquieted by your accusations of guilt, Constable.”
Or because she is guilty.
“I have warned you as best I know how, Mistress Ellyott, to stand aside of affairs that are not your concern. I will investigate Master Reade’s murder. You tend to your patient.”
“Because she is my patient, Ellyn Merrick has given me cause to care about these affairs, as you term them.”
“And has your care anything to do with why you were at the Merricks’ earlier today, Mistress Ellyott?”
She perked her chin. “I sought to visit a patient of mine.”
“Inside the barn?”
A flush pinked her cheeks. “Jest if you will, Constable, but I have learned information you might find interesting. Firstly, that Marcye Johnes blames David Merrick for Master Reade’s death. Secondly, that Master Reade was seen in the Poynard courtyard arguing with some fellow. And lastly, whilst in that barn, I was told that Jeffrey Poynard was the father of the child Mistress Ellyn has lost.” Her chin went higher. “What say you now?”
Nothing.
She had struck him dumb.
CHAPTER 8
“Mean you to stay with us tonight, Dorothie?” asked Bess, closing the hall door behind her. Upstairs, Ellyn Merrick slept, the physic Bess had given to the young woman ensuring she would. “I could send Humphrey with a link to see you safely home by its light.”
Inside the hall, the fire in the hearth burned low and shadows sat heavy and black in the space. On the lane beyond the street-facing windows, the watchman passed, his torch briefly shining upon the many panes.
“You may not feel alone here, Elizabeth, with your two servants and Robert’s dog.” From where she sat in Robert’s chair, Dorothie flicked a look at Quail. He rested across the room from her; the dog had never taken to Dorothie. “But I have only my maidservant at my house.”
“Then you should have stayed with Margery at your mother-in-law’s house,” said Bess, crossing to the hearth to prod an unburned branch onto the glowing embers. “Or brought your daughter home with you.”
“I could not endure that woman’s criticisms a moment longer. Blaming me for Fulke’s death. As though I murdered her son and not our wicked manservant,” hissed Dorothie. “And she begged Margery to stay. I’ll not argue with the woman. My sons will inherit the property that would have gone to their father when she dies.”
Money ever did explain Dorothie’s actions.
Bess set down the poker and turned her back to the fire, letting it warm her. “You could go to your boys in Cambridge.”
“I did ask them.” She had removed her ruff, and her chin sagged onto her neckerchief. “They claim their studies occupy them too greatly to play host to their mother.”
“Then you may use Robert’s chamber tonight, Dorothie,” said Bess. “But you will most likely desire to return to your house on the morrow. With Mistress Ellyn in our care, we cannot attend to you as you would like.”
“A Merrick,” said Dorothie, none too kindly.
“I’d forgotten that you know her. Ellyn did tell me she is Margery’s friend.”
“Ellyn is suitable enough, but the rest …” She shook her head. “Not long ago, the father sought to prove their connection to a noble line so they could hang a coat of arms in their parlor. Overgreedy, they are. Miscontented with their place. He found no such connection, of course.”
“Know you the Reades also?”
“Not well. They are farmers,” said Dorothie, a sufficient explanation for her. “Why do you ask?”
“Their son died yesterday.” Only yesterday. “Murdered.”
Dorothie blanched. Her emotions were ever quick to rise and to wane, but the alarm on her face startled Bess. She noticed, as she’d not earlier that day, how her sister’s cheeks had thinned. How sleeplessness had robbed her green eyes of their usual sharp glint.
I must be kind to her. I must not forget that her own husband was murdered not so very long ago.
Dorothie pressed a hand to her throat. “Is the killer captured? Are we in danger?”
“An old vagrant is accused, Dorothie. We are not in danger.” I pray.
She calmed and lowered her hand to her lap. “Good.”
“But Constable Harwoode’s suspicions lie elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere? Well, ’tis true the Reades have enemies. They desire to rise above their station as much as the Merricks,” she said. “Pish, Elizabeth. Did you spend so many years in London that you forget the jealousies and envies that simmer in a village like this one?”
“Mayhap I have,” she answered. “Let me fetch you wine, sister. To settle your unrest.”
In the kitchen, Joan sat before the fire. Her day’s work complete, she hunched over the hornbook Bess’s husband, Martin, had given to her to learn her letters. He had been such a generous and kind man. The best of masters. The best of husbands.
Oh, Martin. I could well use your counsel.
Joan heard Bess’s footfalls and looked up from her hornbook. She stood and set it aside.
“My apologies for interrupting your studies, Joan,” she said.
“There is no need for apologies, Mistress,” she answered. “How fares your go
od sister and Mistress Ellyn?”
“Ellyn’s adventure has not caused harm to her, so far as I can judge. She sleeps soundly,” said Bess. “And Mistress Crofton stays with us this night. She will make use of my brother’s chamber. Meanwhile, bring us both wine. We have need of it.”
“Aye.” Joan walked off and into the buttery, adjacent to the kitchen. She returned with two glasses of malmsey, one of which she handed to Bess. The wine glowed a tawny red in the firelight.
“Would you have me sleep in Mistress Ellyn’s chamber tonight, Mistress?” asked Joan.
Bess swallowed a sip of wine. It burned pleasantly in her throat. “You fear she may try again to make use of that knife.”
“Desperate women do not always think clearly when driven to their actions.”
Joan’s eyes took on a faraway look, a reverie of remembering an unhappy place and time. Was Joan aware that, whenever she became lost in her recollections, her fingers brushed the scar upon her face?
“How can I help you?” asked Bess.
Joan lowered her hand. “The time for helping me is long past, Mistress. I would not have you fret over me.”
“I’faith, I cannot help but fret over us all, though I said otherwise to Dorothie just now.”
“You may have cause for unease, Mistress. I should have given this to you earlier, but I did not want Mistress Crofton to see. Forgive me if I was wrong to presume so.” From the pocket she’d sewn into her skirt, she withdrew a folded piece of paper with her free hand. She held it out.
“What is it?”
“My friend in London sent this to us. The letter has been many days in arriving,” she said. “It arrived here just before sunset.”
Joan could mean but one friend. The friend who’d been tasked with watching the man who had murdered Bess’s husband.
The dread that chilled Bess could not be warmed by the kitchen fire. Setting down her wine, she took the missive and broke the seal.
“What does it say?” asked Joan, squinting at the words she could not read.
“Laurence is no longer in London. Or if he is, he is in hiding.” Bess’s fingers shook. She refolded the paper and tucked it away before Joan could observe their trembling. She deserved to know the contents of the message; she need not see Bess’s fear.
“God have mercy, Mistress. He is coming for us.”
“Laurence does not know we are in Wiltshire, Joan,” she said, gripping her servant’s hand. He had learned, though, where Robert’s Cheapside countinghouse was. God, keep my brother safe. “He will not find us here.”
But the foreboding that her dream had brought returned with fearsome force.
* * *
Bess withdrew a key from the pocket strung from her girdle and drew the small casket, which always sat upon the table in her bedchamber, over to her. She unlocked it. Laurence’s letter rested atop the others stored within the lacquered wooden box. A month ago, he had sent the note to her brother’s countinghouse and Robert had brought it to Bess, unwitting of its contents. She had never told him or Dorothie the truth of what had happened to Martin. Selfishly, she’d wished to protect them from Laurence’s villainy.
Bess pressed the paper flat, the flame of the candle she’d lit fluttering in the rapid exhalation of her breath.
I know you have someone watch me. Can you be certain, though, that I do not watch you as well?
Take care, Elizabeth Ellyott.
You are not so safe as you believe.
The note was worn from Bess’s repeated handling. He had signed it with only his initial—L—and in a flourish so grand it said much about the man who’d wielded the quill. Arrogant, was Laurence. Treacherous. Dangerous. Though more than a year had passed since Bess had last seen him, in the days before her husband had died at the man’s hand, she could clearly recall the glitter of his sharp eyes. She had thought his bright gaze a reflection of his intellect. She should have known it was a reflection of his evil. She had been charmed by him, though. Had taken the very viper to her heart and brought him into their house.
Boldly—too boldly—she had replied to his note with one of her own. I do not fear you, was what she’d written. Such a lie. She had delayed responding for many days, and the delay was telling. He also had to have realized she lied.
Alongside Laurence’s letter, Bess spread the note they had received today from Joan’s friend. He is gone. ’Twas all the woman had written. The words, however, were sufficient to freeze Bess’s bones. But to where had he gone, and what evil did he now plot? Were more people to die to conceal his treacherous schemes against the throne? To cover the evidence he left behind him like the slimy trail of a slug-snail? Did he come to Wiltshire to silence her, to bury the knowledge of his treason that Bess carried like so much putrid refuse she could not readily discard?
Bess’s gaze fell upon the penknife she kept on the table. She ran a thumb over its ivory handle, avoiding the blade’s sharp edge. Mayhap she should surrender to all the sorrow and the fear and use the knife to cut her wrists, as Ellyn had planned today as an end to her grief.
God help her, Bess would rather use the knife to stab Laurence.
But then she would be no better, no less evil, than he was.
* * *
“I cannot stay long. We have customers yet at the tavern, though it grows late. Those players, who have been causing such trouble for us.” Marcye Johnes eyed Kit from where she stood inside his hall doorway. Eager to answer the summons he’d sent, she had rushed to his house without removing her unbleached canvas apron, spatters of grease and spilled ale soiling the linen. “Can we not be rid of them, Constable? They quarrel with each other and with our good customers.”
“Your father is responsible for keeping the peace within his establishment, Mistress Johnes,” said Kit, reminding her of what she was already aware. “I will be forced to fine him, if he can’t.”
Her eyes widened. “Prithee, do not!”
“The players will be gone soon enough,” said Kit. “I sent for you about another matter.”
“Oh?” she asked, sounding hopeful. She peeped at him through her lashes and smiled.
Bloody … “Let me be plain, Mistress Johnes, so that you may return apace to the tavern,” he said. “I hear you have blamed David Merrick for killing Bartholomew Reade.”
The coyness dropped away. “I am no gossip!” she shrieked. “You have no cause to punish me!”
“I want to know why you make the claim,” he said. “That’s all.”
“’Tis not Jellis who is guilty, ’tis certain.” Suddenly, she scowled. “You have heard this from Bess Ellyott.”
He rested his hips against the narrow table beneath the room’s window and folded his arms. “Tell me about David Merrick, Mistress Johnes.”
“He despised Bartholomew,” she said. “’Tis not only what I think. ’Tis well known.”
“For what reason?”
“Out of envy.”
“Then he must not have been pleased that his sister was in love with the fellow,” said Kit.
“Ha! ’Tis truth, that! This summer, one even before Bartholomew left to act upon the stage, they fought in the Cross Keys,” she said. “Master Merrick gave a swing that actually landed and left Bartholomew with a blackened eye. Bartholomew laughed it off.”
“Though Merrick had been angry enough to blacken his eye, Reade returned to the village without fear.”
The smile that curved her lips was tender. “Bartholomew had no fear of anyone. Certainly not David Merrick. He would have thought his return a great prank to play on his enemies.”
“Reade had many enemies?”
“What man with Bartholomew’s comeliness does not?”
And what woman in this village had not been swayed by the fellow? “Was one of those enemies Jeffrey Poynard, who may have been … well-acquainted, if you will, with Ellyn Merrick?”
Marcye’s eyes lit with a speculative gleam. “You have heard the whispers. But if they shook the she
ets, Constable, ’twas not willingly on her part.”
“If that is so, Marcye, why has David Merrick not sought to revenge the honor taken from his sister by the fellow?”
“He is unaware the fellow dishonored his sister?” She shrugged. “Or mayhap he hoped Master Poynard’s forced attentions would speed a marriage the Merricks greatly desire, Constable.”
Feet thudded up the stairs, and Gibb burst into the hall. “Do I interrupt, coz?”
“My thanks, Marcye. That is all.” Kit had learned all he needed from her. She offered Gibb a coy grin and swept from the room.
He waited until he heard the front door close before turning to his cousin. “What a state we find ourselves in, Gibb,” he said. “Ellyn Merrick possibly pregnant with Poynard’s child. A child she no longer carries. The man she loved recently returned to the village, and whose body now rests in his father’s house, being prepared for burial after his murder. A brother who resented the man. Further, lest we forget, a jealous collection of actors and their master, soon to be reported to the authorities for thieving manuscripts.” Kit pushed away from the table, causing it to rock back and strike the wall. “It’s as though we wander lost through an ancient labyrinth, waiting to find the monster at the end.”
“What part do you suppose Old Jellis played in the windings of this maze, besides the one of which he was accused?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I ask because he is dead.”
* * *
The coroner clutched his robes around his gaunt frame and leaned over the old man slumped against the wall of the jail. A villager held aloft a torch to light the space, the smoke it sputtered making him cough.
“Dead,” announced the coroner.
“Aye, Crowner,” said Kit. “My cousin is capable of telling a dead man from a live one.”
“Jellis. Dead,” whispered one of the men the coroner had assembled to act as his jury. They stood about, packed into the jail like fish stuffed into a barrel for shipment. Their bodies and breaths heated the tiny space. One of them had eaten onions with his dinner.
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