The coroner prodded Jellis with a finger, shifting the man’s clothes about. “No blood. No wounds. No obvious sign of murder.”
“No one could readily have gotten inside here to wound the man, Crowner,” said Kit. Only three people had keys to the jail—Gibb, himself, and the bailiff, who’d come to feed Jellis his evening meal and found his dead body.
“As you say, Constable,” said the coroner stiffly. He scanned the assembled men. “Goodman Jellis perished sometime between midday and sunset. He was an old man known for his intemperate habits.”
“He was a sot, you mean!” a fellow in the back shouted, to laughter from the others.
The coroner waited until the crowd quieted. “This jail is a bleak space, as it ought be. Given his habits and his age, it is my assessment that Goodman Jellis died a natural death from the short hours he spent inside it. What say you all?”
To the man, his jurors nodded or spoke aloud their agreement. But then a grumbling arose.
“’Twas the witch what killed him, Crowner!” called out a fellow wedged between the baker’s apprentice and the jail’s wall. He elbowed the apprentice aside to be better seen. His pockmarked face was red with anger. “That crone who is a witch!”
Silence fell for a moment before the grumbling resumed.
“Aye! That old woman!” said another.
“She cursed Cox’s sheep. She killed Jellis too!” his mate agreed. “Which of us is next? She must be punished!” He looked around him. “Who be with me?”
“I will go and happily!” offered the pockmarked man. Others volunteered as well.
“Stop! Devil take you all, stop this!” shouted Kit. “Jellis died of feebleness. Not from a witch’s curse.”
The fellow whose breath reeked of onions stepped up to him. “You afeard of her, Constable?”
Kit gripped his dagger and glared. “If any of you, a single one, harms Mother Fletcher, I shall see you punished. Now, Crowner, make your pronouncement.”
“A natural death,” he declared, and marched away, shoving aside the men who blocked his rapid departure.
“Go home, the rest of you,” ordered Kit.
They shuffled off, muttering amongst themselves. With a last look at Jellis, Kit ducked through the jail doorway and stepped into the square.
Gibb jogged over from where he’d been standing near the town well. “What was going on in there? I heard shouting.”
“We must keep our ears open for news that any aim to harm Mother Fletcher, Gibb.” Shivering in the brisk wind, Kit reached up to fasten the topmost button of his doublet. “Or Jellis will not be the last dead person we’ll need attend.”
* * *
Clouds hung thick as gray felted wool in the sky, the thinnest morning light showing Bess the way to the Merricks’, her satchel of physic hugged against her waist. They might not welcome her arrival, but she still had a patient at their house whom she could not neglect.
Overnight, rain had spattered the ground, but it had passed, leaving behind puddles. She was not alone on the roadway. An aged woman carrying a basket, a clout covering the lower part of her face and hunched within the kerchief she’d tied around her neck and shoulders, hobbled toward town. Bess nodded at her as they passed each other, then hurried onward. She neared the Merricks’ farm. She thought she spotted Thomasin out by the cow barn, but otherwise, no one was about.
She climbed the short path to the house and rapped upon the door. A maidservant, holding a dripping and dirty rag in her hand, answered with a curtsy. She was the same blue-dressed one Bess had noticed when she’d first come to tend to Anna.
“I am the healer, Widow Ellyott. I trust you remember me. I would see how Anna fares,” said Bess, stepping by the girl. “You need not attend me. I recall where she is within the house.”
“Prithee, wait for me to fetch Mistress Merrick!” the girl called after her.
As Bess had no desire to speak with the glowering and heartless Agnes Merrick—who’d sent no inquiry after Ellyn’s health—she hastened through the ground-floor rooms, gripping her satchel to keep its contents from rattling together.
A voice that sounded like Mistress Merrick’s shouted from the depths of the house. Bess reached the staircase, gathered up her skirts, and climbed. She listened for Mistress Merrick’s voice to grow nearer, but it did not.
She tapped upon the door to the room Anna had been given and went inside. Anna sat on the truckle bed shoved into the corner, tying a garter around her stocking.
“Widow Ellyott.” She slapped her skirts into place over her legs and got to her feet. “I did not expect you’d come again.”
“I do not forget my patients, Anna.” Bess shut the door, leaving the only source of light that from the tiny horn-paned window cut into the wall. “But I see you have recovered. My visit was not needed, after all.” One small piece of good news.
“The mistress has told me to return to my work,” she said, tying the front laces of her pair of bodies. “I am most grateful to you, though.”
“I did attempt to visit yesterday, but no one answered my knock.”
“The household was in a furious upset.” Anna paused. “Thomasin told me … told me …”
“About Bartholomew Reade’s death,” said Bess. “An upset to one and all, I am certain. I’ve been told he was well known.”
She dropped back onto the truckle bed. “Aye, that he was.” The girl pinched shut her eyes, tears squeezing from between her lids.
“You were fond of Master Reade, Anna?” Mayhap more than merely fond.
“He did not always take much note of me,” she replied, swiping the tears off her cheeks. “But when he did, he could be most pleasant. And kind. Unlike the others, who say I am a noddy. That I have no more wits than the sheep.”
“That is cruel.”
“They say it anyway.” Her eyes—the same placid brown of the cows she milked—lifted to Bess’s face. “Bartholomew was so kind, this time. When I heard the troupe was in town, I thought he had come back for her. Instead, he wished to speak with me! So he did tell me, when I went into the village and saw him in the square that first day he and his fellows were here.”
“How did he seem to you? I only ask because I wonder if his outward actions suggested he was troubled.”
“Because he had fought with someone? The person who … who killed him?”
“Aye, Anna,” said Bess. “That is what I mean.”
“Nay, he did not seem troubled at all. Sweet-tempered and full of good humor.” She smiled softly. “He even gave me a gift that proved his regard, though it was taken from me.”
“Who took the gift, Anna? Mistress Merrick?”
“It matters not, for it is gone,” she said. “I have naught to remember him by. Just the memory of when we last spoke, and my happiness at our plans to meet at the old druids’ mound. But then I became ill. I sent him a message, yet he did not heed it. And now he is …” She sobbed again. “Oh, Bartholomew.”
If Anna had been well enough to go to him, would she be dead, too? “You know not what he wished to tell you, though.”
“He’d not had time to explain when I saw him in the square. For the master of the troupe came upon us.” The dairymaid clutched her skirts. “He shouted at Bartholomew to return to his practice. That the play was more important than dallying with women. The fellow’s face was so black with rage, it was. Such rage as though he despised Bartholomew.”
Old Jellis, Mother Fletcher, Jeffrey Poynard, David Merrick, plus the master of the troupe? Who was not to be suspected?
“I have heard whispers of others who may have despised Master Reade,” said Bess. “Including someone within this house.”
The girl chewed her bottom lip. “That night, I thought I saw … but it could not be …”
“Who, Anna?” prodded Bess. “What did you see? And where? From your window here?”
“No. No. I saw naught of import, Widow Ellyott. I was ill and my brain muddy.” She shook her
head, and fear darkened her eyes. “God mend me, ’twas nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 9
A newly hung cross fashioned from elder twigs had been affixed to the lintel of Robert’s front door. Frowning, Bess passed beneath it and unlatched the door, stepping inside.
Joan met her in the entry passage. “How is the girl this morn?”
“She is recovered.” Bess handed off her cloak and satchel. “But I feel she has important information about Master Reade’s murder. Unfortunately, she will not share it. I could not force her to tell me. She is too afraid.”
“Has she heard the news already, Mistress?”
“As I said, she is aware of Master Reade’s death.”
“Not that, Mistress,” said Joan. “About the drunken, frail fellow accused of the murder. He has died. The people of the village are rumbling louder about the witch’s curse.”
Jesu. “How did he die?”
“Of a sudden. His heart failed him.”
“Not murder, then. But it is troublesome that the villagers continue to want to blame a witch. Humphrey will be hanging more elder crosses.” Bess entered the hall and glanced over at the staircase. “Has Ellyn arisen yet? I would tell her that Anna has recovered.”
“She was yet abed when I looked in on her earlier,” she answered. “Mistress Crofton came down to break her fast, but when she heard that another man has died, she retreated to your good brother’s bedchamber with head pains.”
“We should leave Dorothie in peace,” said Bess. “Let me know when Ellyn awakens. In the meanwhile, I have work to do in the still room. Mayhap it will calm my mind.”
She crossed the hall and entered the room where she prepared her physic, which stood off the lobby behind the kitchen. The day’s clouds cast the room in shadows, and she lit the lantern inside. The flame flickered off the jars arrayed atop the room’s shelves, her supply of copper alembics set near the brick furnace in the corner, the herbs that hung from the ceiling beams. She inhaled deeply, hoping the aromas that scented the space would calm her, as they usually did.
This time, they failed.
Quail poked his head around the edge of the doorstead.
“Ah, Quail,” she said, tying an apron around her skirts. “How do we find ourselves in such a muddle once more, hmm?”
The dog had no answer and tapped off to visit Joan in the nearby kitchen.
Bess unsealed a small jar of powered hound’s-tongue and pepper she had previously prepared and poured a quantity into a waiting bowl. She was reaching for another jar containing caraway seeds when she heard the rap of feet against flagstone outside the room.
Ellyn Merrick stood in the doorway, a thin robe covering her shift.
“Good morrow, Ellyn. I asked Joan to alert me when you arose, but here you are,” said Bess. “Did you sleep well?”
“I stole past her watchful gaze, I suppose,” she answered, wrapping her arms about her waist. “And yes, I did sleep well. Thanks to your physic.”
Bess tipped out a quantity of the caraway seeds into her heavy bronze mortar, then resealed the jar. “How do you feel this morn?”
“Better. Foolish. I regret that I caused you to fret for my safety when you have been so kind,” she said. “And you have been kind. Kinder than I deserve.”
“We shall leave your actions in the past. What say you?”
Ellyn nodded.
With her pestle, Bess ground the seeds into powder. “I should tell you that Anna is well. I went to visit her not a half hour ago.”
“I am pleased to hear that.”
Finished with grinding, she set down the pestle and added the powdered seeds to the bowl. “She is frightened, though, after what happened to Master Reade,” she said, looking over at Ellyn. “I cannot shake the feeling that she might have witnessed something important.”
“I would presume everyone in the village and countryside is afraid, Mistress,” she replied smoothly. If Ellyn had any suspicion that a member of her household had been involved in Master Reade’s death, neither her face nor her voice betrayed the sentiment. “I know I am.”
“You are safe here, Ellyn,” said Bess with a reassuring smile. She turned to hunt through her various herbs until she found the dried betony she sought. “The man accused of killing him has died.”
“Oh!”
“I am told he was frail,” said Bess, retrieving her pottery jar of clarified honey. “His heart failed him, surely from the shock of his arrest and all that has occurred.”
“God be thanked that this dreadful business is concluded,” said Ellyn. “What do you make there?”
“A simple for the catarrh,” answered Bess. “The barber’s wife is afflicted. The physic she has made for herself has not succeeded in relieving her thick cough.”
“I have used sugar in aqua vitae as a cure,” said Ellyn.
Bess looked over at her. “Have you?” She had a thought. “Mayhap when you are stronger, you can help me. I would greatly enjoy teaching you what I know of simples, and perhaps learn from you as well.”
“That would be most pleasant, Mistress.” Ellyn smiled, her gaze taking in the room. “You have many fine spices and herbs.”
The betony and honey went into the bowl with the rest of the ingredients, and Bess picked up a spoon to mix all together. “Thanks to my brother, who brings them from London on his travels there for business. He is most generous, for I could not afford them without his support.”
“Your niece has always spoken lovingly of Master Marshall. He sounds a good man.”
“He is indeed. My sister is here, by the way. Without Margery, unfortunately,” said Bess. “You may encounter her.”
“I look forward to hearing news of Margery.”
The mention of family gave Bess the perfect excuse to broach the subject of David Merrick. A man she was definitely curious about. “I met your brother David yesterday.”
“You did?”
“I did,” said Bess. “A most serious sort of fellow. At least, that is my impression of him.”
“He can be most serious. When my father is away, David is responsible for the dairy.” She sounded proud.
Bess finished mixing and lifted the spoon to let the thick syrup drip back into the bowl. “What did your brother think of Bartholomew Reade?”
“They had been schoolmates.”
“Friends.” Not what Bess had been led to believe. Mayhap Marcye had been wrong about David’s hatred for the man. Bess set aside the spoon and selected a clean jar from among the supply waiting on a shelf. “He must have been pleased his friend had returned with the troupe.”
For the first time since she’d come to stand in the doorway, Ellyn’s steady regard faltered. “He did not speak of Bartholomew of late. I know not my brother’s feelings about his return.”
“Did he imagine Master Reade had returned to take you to London with him?” asked Bess. “I have heard of his plans to go to the city.”
“You have been asking questions?”
“There has been much talk, Ellyn.”
“My parents desire me to marry Jeffrey Poynard,” she replied. “A union that could bring us all wealth and standing. My father has promised him a portion, should we wed.”
“But you do not want him, even though you carried his child,” said Bess softly.
Ellyn went ashen. “You have heard a great deal.”
“Did he know about the child?”
“I did not tell him,” said the lovely woman who stood before her. A woman both strong and frail at the same time. A woman Bess could not help but pity.
“Why do you not wish to marry him?” asked Bess. “He would provide well for you.”
“Have you ever met Jeffrey Poynard, Mistress Ellyott?”
“No, I have not.” But I feel I should.
“Should you ever, you might discover why wealth and standing are insufficient.”
“I already understand why, Ellyn,” Bess replied, her heart filling with every emotion
she’d ever felt for Martin. “I married for love.”
“I would that my family would allow me to wed for love. But now …” She swayed and reached for the doorpost.
“Ellyn!” Bess rushed to her side as she slid to the ground. “Joan! Come now! Quickly!”
* * *
“Constable, forgive me if you waited long at the door,” said Bess Ellyott’s servant. She dipped a curtsy. “Come inside the hall, sir.”
Kit followed her, ducking into the room. It was empty, save for Robert Marshall’s dog, which briefly lifted its head to give Kit a look.
“I will fetch my mistress,” said Joan, scurrying off.
After a short wait, footfalls sounded on the staircase set between this room and the parlor on the other side. Bess Ellyott entered the hall, an apron tied over her gown and strands of her brown hair springing loose from her coif.
He tapped the brim of his hat in greeting. “Good morrow, Mistress. Do I interrupt?”
“No, Constable,” she replied, tucking the hair back beneath the linen covering her head. The spicy scent of herbs rose from her clothing. “But if you wish to speak to Ellyn again, she truly is not well enough. She fainted from weakness and distress and should be permitted to rest.”
“I’m not here to speak with her.”
“And I presume you are not here to speak with my sister, who swoons upon my brother’s bed upstairs, or my servants. Which leaves me.” She lowered herself onto the room’s settle. Her brother’s dog sauntered over to lay at her feet and nap. She gestured for Kit to take the large chair before the hearth. “Is there fresh news?”
“Have you heard that the man held in the jail for killing Bartholomew Reade has died?” he asked, dropping onto the chair.
“I have.” She lifted her brows. “Are you here to ask if I also believe a witch cursed him?”
“I noticed the elder above your door.”
“My brother’s manservant hung it there. Prithee, Constable, protect Mother Fletcher. Her life is in jeopardy if the townsfolk insist on these accusations.”
“They have demanded that the priest inspect the old woman’s skin to search for evil marks, Mistress,” he said. “Master Enderby volunteered his services instead.” The venerable churchwarden, quick to root out sin and guilt, even where it didn’t exist.
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