“What do you mean?”
“This just proves it, don’t it? He knew we were on to him. He drank himself a skinful last night, got himself right soused to work up some courage; either that or he got melancholy and then decided to end it. He’s hung himself and left the proof of his crime all about his feet—all the coin he stole from that poor old sod he offed in the church.”
“I am not so sure, John.”
“Not so sure? What’s not to be sure about? Here he is swinging from the rafters. I’ll wager my best cow that’s Roger Lacy’s coin purse.”
Thomas knelt by the body. It all seemed a little too convenient. A scene prepared carefully for them. It looked like someone had just swept the dirt floor clean. Not something a man who was about to hang himself might do. And yet there were a couple of scuff marks he could still see, and a chunk taken out of one of the wattle walls.
There were some of the usual signs of hanging—the bulging eyes, the swollen face, his bowels emptied, the bruised neck. The neck was clearly broken, however, not something likely to happen with the short fall from the stool, even for a man of the miller’s weight. He touched the face carefully, tilting it to the side. The skin was cold and clammy, the face puffy. The severe crease and burn under the rope was thinner than the rope itself, and Thomas could see scratch marks on the skin. That would not be unusual. A strangling man faced with death might well struggle with the rope, clawing at his neck in a last, regretful panic. But these marks here were under the rope, not around its edges as one might have expected. Rolling up the dead man’s sleeves, Thomas was not surprised to find bruising. He suspected there would be similar bruising in the small of the back, where a knee might have been pressed, and at the back of the neck where knuckles might have ground into the flesh while tightening the garrote.
Like the other villagers, Tom Attwood was sure to be a deeply religious man. Was it really likely he would hang himself and risk damnation? Thomas doubted it.
No, this was just too convenient a resolution for all concerned. The miller was the second victim. And the fact the killer would so willingly give up his ill-gotten gains to implicate the poor man also served to convince Thomas that coin had in fact never been the primary motive behind Lacy’s murder. Something else entirely was afoot.
The constable stood by, watching, saying nothing.
“Well there’s little more we can do here, John. Cover the body and have a cart take him to the mortuary chapel. Perhaps Brother Eustace will see something we cannot.”
The big man shook his head and sighed.
CHAPTER 12
The young, flaxen-haired boy scampered across the courtyard in pursuit of a shaggy dog that had to be twice his size. No simple homespun for this lad; his was a finer cloth altogether, although he had managed to tear and soil his hose all the same. He paused the chase long enough to stand and stare at Thomas with the unashamed inquisitiveness of a small child. Whatever had piqued his interest did not hold him long. The dog, noticing its playmate’s distraction, bounced around playfully and gave him a chivvying little yap. Thomas smiled at the boy. And then he was off again, pumping his chubby little arms as he ran, making mock barking sounds, his face glowing, bright and happy, full of life.
Thomas watched the game for a few moments before turning toward the chapel. He hoped to finally visit Lady Isabella before the day’s end, but first he would stop by Father Elyas and inquire after the miller’s family.
The chapel was a surprisingly small but sturdy stone structure where the manor’s servants would attend services. A small area toward the front of the nave had been screened off and furnished with comfortable chairs and well-padded kneeling stools so the family could also worship there, free from the gawking stares of their servants. The rest of the chapel was austere by comparison, with not much more than a few rows of old wooden benches seated on the stone-flagged floor. Most of the congregation would have to stand at the back.
The chaplain’s cell would likely be located at the front of the chapel, just off the sacristy. As he proceeded down the aisle, Thomas heard a sudden noise in front of him, the distinct scraping of wood being dragged across a floor, and a woman emerged from the shadowed entrance to the sacristy. She was elegantly dressed and wore a hooded cloak. This could only be the mysterious Lady Isabella de Bray. Thomas had heard she was beautiful, and he could see at once it was no lie.
On seeing Thomas, she froze guiltily in place.
“I apologize, my lady, I did not mean to disturb your devotions. I was just looking for Father Elyas.”
“He is not here.” The response was curt, almost snappish. Realizing she had been rude, Isabella recovered herself and smiled disarmingly. It was an undeniably pretty smile. “I am sorry. It is only that I too was looking for the chaplain, but I have been waiting for some time now, and he does not appear to be coming. I shall return later.”
She turned up her hood and, with an apologetic glance, brushed past him toward the door.
“You are Lady Isabella?”
She paused and looked up at him inquisitively. Isabella could hardly be much older than her stepdaughter, Cecily, and she was even more attractive up close. Thomas made sure to look directly into her eyes, startling gray, even in the dim chapel light, resisting the temptation to let his own eyes wander over the richly embroidered and close-fitted dress visible underneath the cloak.
“My name is Thomas Lester. I was hoping to speak with you.”
Isabella’s eyes flicked to the side, and she clutched nervously at the cloak’s ermine-trimmed edges.
“My husband has told me as much, but I am not feeling well at the moment, and I was hoping to see the chaplain.” Her voice trailed off, and she looked about her as though expecting the man might appear at any moment. “He is usually here. But he is not. I don’t know where he could be, and I need to make my confession. I waited and waited, but he did not come.”
Her eyes snapped back to Thomas. “Do you know where the chaplain is? Have you seen him?”
Thomas shook his head. “I am sorry, my lady. If you remember I was looking for him myself.”
“You were? I thought you wished to speak with me?”
“Yes, that also. I intended to seek an audience with you after speaking with Father Elyas.”
“I cannot speak now. I am not feeling well, and I have to return to my room. And we cannot speak here anyway. I suppose, if we must, we may speak a little later. Tomorrow perhaps, but only if I am feeling better and once I have found the chaplain.” Isabella chewed her lip and looked back down the aisle to the sacristy. “I waited for some time, but he has not come, and I need to make my confession.”
Thomas suspected that Lady Isabella might find herself equally indisposed again on the morrow, and scrambled for a subject by which he might engage her in conversation. “I saw a very likely looking young man playing in the courtyard just now. Your son, Henry, I believe?”
In Thomas’s experience, people liked to speak about their children, especially when they were being complimented. Isabella, it seemed, did not, and his attempt to engage her in conversation had quite the opposite effect.
“My son? Was he playing with the hounds again? I have told him not to do so. I must leave at once.”
She spun on her heel and walked away without waiting for an answer to her questions, pausing only momentarily at the door to look back at him.
“If you see the chaplain, you must send him to me at once. It is getting late, and it is already long past time for my confession.”
Thomas made a belated little bow, and she was gone.
* * *
Isabella congratulated herself on how cleverly she had managed to avoid conversing with the young man. She was not supposed to speak with him. And she would avoid doing so again tomorrow. Isabella’s mother had once told her that women should profess to be unwell when they wished to avoid a man’s attentions. A gentleman of good breeding would never press the matter, she had said, for fear he might vent
ure into the frightening realm of women’s issues. Men could be so silly!
Isabella was less pleased when she spied her son rolling in the grass at the edge of the courtyard. He was filthy! She would send Hunydd to fetch him in later, but she could not stop now—lingering outside her chambers for too long always made Isabella feel anxious. Unsafe.
She drew her hood close about her face and hastened to the side of the manor house, entering by the postern. She always came and went that way so as to avoid anyone who might wish to engage her in conversation. It was not far now. She hustled across the back of the hall, behind the partition, and suddenly paused, flattening herself against the narrow stairwell leading to the family quarters.
There were voices on the stairs. Isabella could make out Cecily’s voice, and she was speaking to someone in hushed, sibilant whispers. Isabella felt a thrill of excitement in her stomach. She knew from the urgency of the conversation that they must be up to something wicked, which made it so very much more interesting; and she had long suspected Cecily of plotting against her.
Isabella held her breath and listened intently, but they were too far away, and she could only hear brief snatches, just a few words, nothing that made any real sense. Still, she would be able to tell him about the secret conversation. He was sure to be pleased with her. She gnawed a doubtful lip. On second thoughts, he might also be angry that she did not get close enough to find out what they were saying.
Isabella realized with a start that they had finished speaking. She could hear Cecily walking back up to her room, and other footsteps were rapidly descending the stairs toward her. She barely had time to affect a more casual appearance before Hunydd arrived at the foot of the stairs.
Hunydd blinked in surprise at seeing the lady of the house appear as if out of nowhere. “My lady? Do–do you need anything?”
“Not right now, Hunydd. I am just come from taking the air,” Isabella replied, fluffing nonchalantly at her clothes.
She could see that Hunydd had something clutched to her breast. A letter! It was surely a secret missive. Isabella tried not to stare too intently. She really wanted to ask about the letter, but she did not want to appear too inquisitive. Hunydd might suspect her of spying and tell Cecily. That, and Isabella really did want to be back inside her parlor. She felt like she had been away for an age already and was getting quite anxious. So, with a nod, she began to climb the stairs, pausing only to call out to Hunydd over her shoulder.
“You should fetch Henry inside now, Hunydd. I left him playing in the courtyard. You know how he is with the dogs.”
That was good. It made Isabella’s story so much more credible, although she was quite certain Hunydd did not suspect her of listening in on the conversation with Cecily. Hunydd was a fairly silly girl, after all.
CHAPTER 13
“This is stupid,” grumbled the constable, shifting irritably from one rump cheek to the other. He stood up, stretched, and rubbed his backside vigorously with both hands. “Nobody’s coming, and my arse is going numb sitting around waiting. I could be in my bed now, cuddled up all nice and cozy next to the missus. This better not be some sort of wild goose chase, Will.”
His ire was directed at the skinny old man lying flat on his stomach, squinting out over the moon-washed field.
Thomas agreed. They had been waiting well over an hour, and he felt more than a little silly himself, sitting with his back propped up against the rickety wooden wall of the byre, twisting his head around every now and then to glance out over the stubble still left over from the harvest.
“Wait awhile, John,” said Will, flapping his hand to signal that the constable should return to his hiding place. “Every night about this time, she comes, skips across the field, all quiet and secret-like, and then disappears into the trees over there.” He hesitated, chewing his cheek. “Well, perhaps not every night, but most. She’s up to no good, I tell you.”
Thomas blew out his cheeks in frustration. The constable had brought Will, cap in hand, to him that morning, with a fantastical tale of a young woman dressed in a dark cloak and hood stealing about the village at night, entering the forest from the field right in front of the old abandoned assart where they now waited.
John slumped heavily to the ground. “If I find you made all of this up, Will, I swear to God you’ll regret it. I’ll be sure to give you a thrashing of the like you won’t soon forget. And what are you doing out here at night anyway, when all decent folk should be abed?”
“I don’t sleep well since the missus passed. I find it helps to take the air. It’s none too good for the lungs to be shut up inside a smoky cottage all the time, you know.” He offered a weak, embarrassed chuckle.
“Taking the air, my arse,” growled John. “Peeking in good people’s shutters more like. I know what you get up to, you dirty old bastard. I should throw you in the stocks.”
“Now see here,” whined Will, “it ain’t like that.”
John was idly chewing on a blade of grass he had plucked up from the ground. “Hold on a minute.” The constable suddenly glared at Will. “Were you over at widow Margery’s cottage again?”
The uncomfortable silence that followed said it was true.
“Why don’t you just speak to her instead of peeking in her shutters, you daft old bugger. She’s still a good-looking woman, and you have a decent bit of land. You’re a few sticks short of a bundle, I suppose, and you’re no spring chicken, but she could do worse.”
Will squirmed about and shifted position. “I’m shy. And I have spoken to her anyway. We have what you might call an arrangement.”
John raised his eyebrows. “What sort of arrangement?”
“I like to look, and she don’t mind it none. There’s a nice big crack in the shutter over one window. If she wanted, she could get it fixed, but she leaves it like that so I can get a decent eyeful.”
“What?” exclaimed the constable, appalled by what he had just heard. “She knows you’re peeking at her?”
“’Tis true, I tell you. I like looking and she likes to be looked at. It … well, it suits us both.” Will gave a decided nod of his head.
John tossed the blade of grass aside in disgust. “So that’s it then. She’s inside getting undressed and all the while knowing you’re outside ogling her in her shift?” He sighed and shook his head. “Then she’s as daft as you are, and you deserve each other. Did it never occur to you both that you might go inside and, well, you know …” He clenched his fist and pumped it in the air a couple of times to finish the thought.
Will squirmed about again. “We sort of like it the way it is. And sometimes she does leave the door unbarred anyhow, and I’ll sneak in real quiet like while she’s abed and—”
“No! Dear God, no!” The constable waved both his hands in front of his face. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear about it. Well then, you’re a right pair of daft old buggers and no mistake. I bet neither of you includes that in your confession of a Sunday, do you? Or maybe you did, and poor Father Oswin died of shock.”
He punched Thomas lightly on the arm, a happy grin plastered across his face. “There you go. We’ve solved the vicar’s death. He died of shock and shame that he could have a couple of silly old bastards like them in his flock. I guess tonight wasn’t a complete waste after all.”
Thomas couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the strangest arrangement he had heard of. There was a woman one time on Brayford Wharf in Lincoln, a skinny old bird as he recalled, who made a handsome living out of a local bronzesmith who liked to be tied up and tickled with a goose feather. And then there was the time the bishop had dispatched him to investigate the famous moaning shade in Nottingham that turned out to be a cooper who—
John interrupted his thoughts, grumbling away again. “I think we should call it a night. Nobody’s coming. Like I said, it’s a wild goose chase.”
“I know what I saw,” insisted Will, a tad tetchy at being made fun of.
“I think you drink
too much.”
Thomas tugged his cloak about him and listened to the pair of them bickering away with each other in exaggerated whispers. He looked up at the sky, dotted by stars and a low hanging moon that gave off a strange translucent sort of light, rendering the whole landscape surreal and fanciful. It seemed somehow appropriate for their strange escapade.
John was still haranguing the old lecher. “And how come you don’t know who it is if you’ve seen her so often?”
“Because she moves about at night, doesn’t she, when it’s dark. And she’s all covered up with a cloak and hood,” Will sneered. “It’s a better moon tonight, though. Mayhap we’ll see something. If you ever stop griping and do some watching,” he added quietly as an afterthought, almost to himself.
John shifted uncomfortably. “Some forester you are! Your eyes are good enough when they need to be. Good enough to peek into people’s shutters.” He plucked irritably at the grass again. “And where does this cloaked mystery woman go then?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you ever follow her?”
Will turned to stare at his companion. “Follow her? No, that’d be wrong, to just sort of follow her about. I wouldn’t feel right about it. What kind of a man do you think I am?”
Will had a strange sense of morality indeed, and Thomas wondered again what he was doing. There he was, at midnight, looking out over a dead field for some ghost of a girl on the questionable say-so of a half-soused dirty old lecher who liked to wander the village at night to see if he could catch his fancy-bird or any of the other village women in their shifts.
“And I don’t go in those woods at night anyway,” added Will. “There’s things in there.”
“What things?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t know; things is all.”
The constable chuckled.
“It’s true! Everybody knows it.” Will began speaking in an awed whisper. “I’ve seen them: shadows that slip between the trees like they’re following you. Stalking you. Things you see from the corner of your eye, but then when you turn, there’s nothing there, nothing but darkness. Blackness. You can feel the hairs on your neck standing on end, and you just know something is looking back at you. You want to turn away, but you daren’t because that’s what it wants, and you know that when you do turn your back, it will be right behind you. Breathing on your neck. Sharp teeth ready to sink into your throat.”
Those Who Go by Night Page 13