Baynard's List (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 2)

by Jason Vail

  Stephen had a strong suspicion what she meant. “He knocked heads for Clement?”

  The maid nodded. “Although it was on the master’s orders. Most of the time, anyway. Their secret business. I’m told you know about that.”

  “Yes. I had heard about it.”

  They were interrupted by a woman calling from the hall. Even though she must have been some distance back in the house, the voice carried the snap of command. “Lucy, what in the devil’s name are you doing? Close that door!”

  Lucy disappeared behind the door. “It’s a caller, mistress.”

  “Well, either send him on his way or let him in. You’re letting in the cold.”

  “Sorry, mistress. It’s the deputy coroner, mistress.”

  A conversation followed that was too low for Stephen to make out. Then the door swung open and Lucy, the maid, stepped aside to admit him. “The mistress bids you enter,” she said.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” Stephen said.

  She led him past the front rooms to the hall. Olivia Baynard was removing her calfskin gloves before the great fireplace at the far end. It was obvious she had just come in from the wet. A boy was depositing an armload of firewood and a manservant was stoking the fire to liven it up. Stephen couldn’t help looking again at Olivia’s companion. She faced the fire and he saw only her profile. She seemed so young, so gentle, so sweet, so in need of protection. He could look at that innocent face for hours and not grow bored with it.

  But Olivia Baynard would not allow that. “Sir Stephen,” she said. “My apologies. I did not recognize you when we came in, otherwise I’d not have allowed you to linger in the street.”

  Stephen jerked his attention from the companion. Olivia surprised him by speaking in French. He had not expected that. It signaled that she was not from the merchant class, but from the gentry, and she wanted him to know it. He replied in the same language. “No harm done. Lucy kindly told me what I needed to know.”

  “She says you’re looking for Howard Makepeese.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it have anything to do with poor William’s death?”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  “You don’t think . . . they said it was an accident.”

  “The jury think it was an accident. I’m not satisfied of that yet.”

  “Oh, dear.” Olivia shuddered. Stephen noticed for the first time how delicate she seemed, how slender and swanlike. Stephen’s first impression of Olivia had been that she was not an attractive woman, but there was something deliciously sensual in the way she moved and carried herself. He also noticed that she was barely in her twenties, much younger than her deceased husband. Youth and that swanish elegance must have been what drew Baynard to her; because she was gentry, she had married down, and probably had brought no property to the marriage. A rich man like Baynard could afford to marry for love or lust. Olivia grinned ruefully and said, “If anyone’s capable of murder it’s Howard. But I can’t see Howard doing violence to William. They were the best of friends — odd friends, but good friends.”

  “Odd? Odd in what way?”

  “Oh, that is a delicate matter,” Olivia said, glancing at the companion.

  The companion turned from the fire at this. “Oh, come now, Olivia. Since when have you ever shrunk from speaking the truth in front of me.” She spoke to Stephen now, even though they had not yet been introduced. “Olivia and I are childhood friends. We shared every secret once.”

  Olivia suddenly realized she had forgotten her manners. “Sir Stephen, may I present my good dear friend, Lady Margaret de Thottenham. She has just come this very hour to comfort me in my bereavement. She has experience in widowhood, being a widow herself.”

  “My pleasure, Lady Margaret,” Stephen said. She looked him straight in the eye in a way that was not at all demure and ladylike. They were blue eyes, he noticed, as blue as the sky, and frank and penetrating and watchful, and yet there was something playful about them as well. Those eyes, and the rest of her, were enough to make even a king’s heart beat faster. For his certainly had started to wrack distressingly. He had to remind himself that she stood much higher on the social scale than he did and he would have to be careful about revealing his feelings for fear of giving offense.

  He said, “Mistress Baynard, what was odd about their friendship?”

  “Well,” Olivia shrugged, “William was the sort of man who cared more for men than for women, if you know what I mean — and Howard cares for women far too much for anyone’s good. Yet they seemed to like each other inordinately.”

  Margaret looked stunned. Clearly, she came from a sheltered country background. “You can’t mean he was a —”

  Olivia nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you allowed him in your house!” Margaret gasped. Homosexuals were considered evil by most people; some churchmen even preached they were spawn of the devil and dealing with them could lead to damnation. As if in surprise, she touched his arm, but withdrew her hand as she realized the social mistake she had just made. She whispered, “Oh, dear.”

  “Ancelin found him useful,” Olivia said defensively. “And he was. He was very efficient.”

  “You don’t suspect there was anything . . . untoward between them?” Stephen asked. He did not want to offend Margaret, who seemed shocked. He had this strong impulse to protect her, to shelter her from the harsh realities of the world. But he had to know.

  “No,” Olivia said with conviction. “I do not. I’d have heard of it, surely. You can’t keep secrets like that in a household.”

  Stephen had leapt to the suspicion that Muryet had died as a result of a lover’s quarrel: he had discovered that Howard had a woman on the side, had jealously confronted him, and been killed for his trouble. Olivia’s firmness in the matter made that possibility seem remote. But that didn’t let Makepeese off the hook. Any number of other reasons could disrupt the best friendship and lead to murder.

  Stephen said carefully, “Men of William’s persuasion rarely fail to form attachments with other men. Do you know of anyone who might have been . . .”

  Olivia looked distressed and glanced at Margaret, then shook her head. “I have no direct knowledge of his . . . activities, but he spent a great deal of time at a bathhouse. Indeed, he and Howard often went there together. The one by the river across from St. John’s Hospital. I suspect you’ll find the answer to that question there.”

  “Oh my,” said Margaret.

  Stephen nodded. Then he remembered why he had come. “Tell me about Makepeese. Why was he discharged?”

  Olivia sniffed. “He was no longer needed. My husband’s death . . . Clement’s arrest . . .” she waved a delicate, long-fingered hand.

  “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “No idea. You may ask the staff, if you wish. But I doubt they have any more idea than I have. I hear all their talk and no one’s said a word about him.”

  Stephen wondered just how true it was that she knew all the house gossip. As a child, Stephen had spent enough time eavesdropping on the staff to know that staff was able to conceal what it wished from the lords of a house. But Howard’s whereabouts did not seem like anything they would care to hide. He didn’t feel like ordering the assembly of the household staff to put this question to them. If anyone might know, he suspected it would be Lucy, and she’d known nothing. There were other places he could go for that information.

  He glanced behind and above him at the door to Baynard’s study. He gestured toward the door. “Who in the household has access to that room since Clement was arrested?”

  Olivia’s chin rose. “Why do you ask?” she said coldly.

  “My lord Valence has directed me to enquire about a missing document.”

  Olivia sighed. “Apart from Clement, only William had permission to enter the room.”

  Stephen nodded. “I would like to see his rooms, if I may.”

  Olivia frowned and shrugged. “Very well.” She turned a
nd called in English to Lucy, who stood waiting by the fireplace, “Please take Sir Stephen to William’s room.”

  Lucy bent a knee. “Yes, my lady.”

  Lucy led Stephen up the stairway beside the fireplace. Behind it he knew the house stretched far back from the street with an upper floor full of rooms. As he followed the maid down one of two corridors that ran to the rear of the house, he heard muffled laughter coming from the hall.

  Olivia and Margaret fell into each other’s arms. They laughed so hard that tears flowed down Margaret’s cheeks. Olivia wiped them for her.

  “What were you doing, you brat!” Olivia exclaimed between gasps.

  “Hush!”

  “Oh, tosh. He can’t hear now.” Olivia’s laughter subsided to giggles. “I thought you might actually pretend to faint.”

  “At least you did not give me away.”

  “Why play the swan with the likes of him? It will encourage familiarity.”

  “I like him. I wouldn’t mind if he came calling. You shall have to find a way to invite him for dinner.”

  Olivia was scandalized. “But he’s practically a pauper. What would you want with a man like that?”

  “He’s rather handsome. And he seems decent. It’s hard to find a decent man. You’ll discover, Olivia, now you’re a widow, that you’ve far more freedom to indulge yourself than you had before. If you find a man attractive, you can have him, and no one will question you, as long as he is of the right class and you are discrete. And I so need a good man. It’s been so long.”

  “I have to warn you, Margaret, if you decide to pursue this thing, that he’s deformed.”

  “How so?”

  “His foot.”

  “I saw nothing wrong with it.”

  “There was that limp.”

  “It was hardly noticeable.”

  “They say a Moor chopped it off.” Olivia made a chopping motion with one hand against the palm of the other.

  “All of it?”

  “No, it’s said only part.”

  Margaret laughed. “As long as the best part of him works. He’s presentable, he speaks nicely.” Her expression became wistful. “We aren’t allowed to marry for love, but who’s to say we can’t find it somehow?”

  William had occupied a chamber on the south side of the house. It was dim inside. Stephen crossed the room as soon as he entered and opened the shutters of the sole window. Unlike the windows in the hall, it had no glass. It was still raining and a gust of wind caused Lucy to grip her arms and shiver. Stephen ignored the rain and the chill. At least now he could see.

  The walls and ceiling were painted alternating stripes of blue and green. A large frame bed dominated the room. Its wooden frame, like the walls was painted blue and green stripes, which spiraled up the bedposts. Linen curtains had been pulled back and tied with blue ribbon. The bed was neatly made. It was covered with a woolen blanket of dark red. White linen pillows lined the top, waiting for an occupant who would be late. Stephen pushed on the mattress. It was soft and yielding. It felt like down, small feathers too. Very expensive.

  “Did Muryet own the mattress?” Stephen asked.

  Lucy frowned. “I think so, sir.”

  Stephen ran his eyes over the rest of the room. There was a wardrobe beside the door. Neatly folded clothes lay on its shelves. They weren’t as colorful as the walls: mainly severe whites, browns and blacks. Stephen had met William before only twice briefly, and he remembered him as being very soberly dressed and rather dour in demeanor.

  Beside the wardrobe was the customary chamber pot, empty of course, and in the corner by the door was a little table on which a small bronze cross stood, flanked by two unlighted candles. A small book lay at the base of the cross. It was odd to find a book here — as it had been to find books in Baynard’s study. Books were expensive and only the wealthy had them. Stephen, who had a secret liking for books, idly opened it. It was written in Latin. He recognized it as the confessions of St. Augustine.

  To his rear by the window where it could catch the light was a writing desk and a high-backed chair with a pillow on the seat. The writing desk had a shelf divided into little square compartments that reminded Stephen of a honeycomb. Each comb held rolled up documents. Stephen began pulling them out. They all dealt with household matters, mainly lists of supplies with prices, some accounts, and copies of a few letters, all written in a crabbed, barely legible hand. This was not surprising since the usual job of a butler was to manage the purchase of household supplies. There was no list of names, however. Not that Stephen had expected to find it in the comb. William would not have been so stupid as to hide the list there.

  There was a box beside the shelves of the kind people used to store jewelry or coins. It had a little keyhole, but when Stephen prodded the lid, he found it was not locked. He opened the box. It was empty. The presence of the box suggested that Muryet had once had valuable goods or money. The fact it was empty suggested that he had sold the contents to pay his ubiquitous debts — yet he had evidently shrunk from selling his edition of St. Augustine. Curious, that.

  Stephen pressed on the seat pillow, hoping to feel the crunch of a parchment concealed inside. But the pillow seemed to be filled only with wool stuffing.

  He returned to the bed. He tore off the blanket and linen sheet and pulled the mattress onto the floor.

  “Sir!” cried Lucy.

  “What is it?” Stephen snapped, not looking at her. He was examining the fabric for signs of a cut and the seams for signs they had been re-stitched.

  “N-n-nothing, sir,” Lucy said.

  “Huh,” Stephen grunted.

  Despite his hopes, nothing was concealed in the mattress.

  He checked the pillows in the same meticulous way, but they too gave no sign of concealing any secrets.

  After that, to Lucy’s further astonishment, he crawled under the bed frame to look for secret compartments. He found none. He tapped on the walls and the wardrobe, hoping for a loose board or the tell-tale hollow sound of a hidden cupboard. But all he got was skinned knuckles.

  Stephen straightened up and sucked on one of his knuckles. “Well,” he said. “That was a waste of time.”

  “It certainly was,” Lucy said, surveying the mess which she would have to clean up.

  “I’ll see Clement’s room now.”

  “Clement’s room?”

  “Yes. He has a room here, doesn’t he?”

  “He had one. It’s no longer his.”

  “Is it occupied?”

  “Not presently.”

  “I’ll still see it then.”

  Lucy sighed. She plainly thought he had lost his mind and she did not approve. She crossed to the window, closed the shutters, and strode into the corridor. “It’s this way, sir.”

  He followed her to a corner room at the rear of the house. She stood back from the door after pushing it open. The shutters on the windows — there were two and on a sunny day this must have been a pleasant, well-lighted room — were closed and it was as dark and gloomy as Muryet’s chamber. But there was enough light to see that it had been stripped of all personal items. Even the mattress was gone from the bed.

  “When did this happen?” Stephen asked.

  “After Clement’s arrest. The mistress had no need for him, since she did not inherit the business. She had William clean out the room.”

  Stephen nodded slightly. Clement had been Baynard’s chief bailiff and had managed the draper’s day-to-day business operations as well as having been deeply involved in Baynard’s spying. Stephen had heard that Baynard’s will left his business to a nephew, since he had no living children except for an illegitimate daughter, and that Olivia had received only a small income and a life estate in this house as her dower portion of the marriage property. He wondered to what extent the sumptuousness of the house concealed looming poverty. It was not surprising then that Olivia was discharging staff. “What became of Clement’s things?”

  “They were put
in the loft in the stables. There is no need to go looking for them though,” she said anticipating Stephen’s question. “He has retrieved his goods since his release.”

  Chapter 7

  Stephen returned to the hall. The two women were seated before the fire drinking warm cider with blankets thrown over their legs.

  “Did you find what you sought?” Olivia asked.

  “No,” Stephen said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said politely.

  “Thank you, Mistress Baynard, Lady Margaret,” he said with a bow, taking his leave. “If you learn anything about Makepeese, you will contact me?”

  “Doubtless,” Olivia said.

  Stephen turned to go. He thought he heard Margaret hiss, “Olivia!”

  Olivia coughed. “Sir Stephen, dinner will be served in a hour’s time. Would you care to stay and keep two old widows —”

  ”Young widows!” Margaret said.

  “Young widows,” Olivia said, corrected. “Would you keep us company on such a dreary day? Surely that would be preferable than to chasing about in the wet.”

  Stephen thought of Christopher a prisoner at the castle and was about to say, no, I don’t mind the wet. Then he remembered he had forgotten to inspect the study. He shouldn’t rely on Valence’s description, but should see it for himself. If he was going to do that now, he couldn’t politely refuse. “I would be delighted.”

  “Good!” Olivia said. “Then Lucy will fetch you a chair and some hot cider — or would you prefer mulled wine? — and you can relax beside us.”

  There was an elaborate ivory chess set on a table whose top was inlaid with gray and white slate squares as the board. He challenged Olivia to a game, but she demurred. “Play Margaret instead,” Olivia said. “She is the devil’s own chess player. I’ve never known the man who could beat her.”

  Margaret scowled briefly, as if she had smelled something spoiled. But then she smiled brightly and accepted the challenge.