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

by Jason Vail

  “Lies! Slander!” Clement snapped with convincing indignation. “There is no truth here, only the desperate words of a man who seeks to avoid condemnation!”

  “But how did you know about the window, Clement?” Stephen said ominous calm.

  “Window?” Clement blustered. “Of what importance is a window?”

  “It is the key to your guilt. You knew to have men cover it because it offered an escape route. You knew it offered the possibility of escape because Howard Makepeese had fled through it. You saw him there on the landing where Mistress Webbere is now watching as you killed Muryet. You saw him flee into the apartment, you broke the door down — and you found him gone, that window the only possible way out.”

  “A fairy story, not fit to entertain children,” Clement snorted. He made a play of composure that might have convinced many of those watching, but did not convince Stephen.

  “There was another witness, however,” Stephen said. “One who still lives.”

  “Stephen!” Margaret warned sharply.

  Clement was coolly defiant. “Bring forth this witness.”

  “Why, Clement, you already know her involvement. Olivia Baynard will give her testimony when it is time,” Stephen said, despite the warning from Margaret. His job was to catch murderers, not to protect thieves.

  Clement remained remarkably calm. Only the twitching of the corners of his eyes with every utterance betrayed his distress. “She knows nothing,” he said.

  “Oh, she knows much. She saw you, as well, no doubt through the cracked door. She left one of her hairs on the window frame as she, with Howard, fled from you over the roof. You knew she was involved after having us followed to Marlbrook, where you discovered Howard hiding on land once held by her family. He would only have hidden there if she concealed him — which meant that she knew about the list. People are more likely to believe her than you think. She may have suffered misfortune, but she is a lady and has borne it with dignity. People respect that. They will listen to her. You know this. In fact, you sought to have her killed because you knew she would be believed.”

  The color drained from Clement’s face. He took a faltering step back, then another. He hadn’t anticipated that there might have been another witness. After Makepeese’s death he must have felt much safer. But his confidence now crumbled before their eyes.

  Stephen advanced toward the retreating Clement. His voice, like his steps, came implacably. “You killed Muryet because he wouldn’t give you the list. He was more loyal to his mistress than to you, and you couldn’t stand that. You had frightened him into obedience all your time at Baynard House, but when it mattered most, he could not be frightened. You wanted his death then more than you wanted the list. You would have killed Makepeese, too, if Lucy hadn’t done your work for you. And you plotted with Will Thumper to cut Olivia’s throat to silence her because she knew what you had done.”

  The crowd shrank from Clement as he backed away and his men stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. Then hands reached for Clement to take possession of his body in the time-honored way of the hue-and-cry, the public duty to apprehend criminals.

  The realization that the crowd had decided against him broke any remaining resolve Clement might have harbored. He turned and ran, pushing aside those who stood between him and flight, to dash down Corve Street, his short coat flapping. Several men pursued him, but though he ran on legs fueled by fear, he could not outdistance them. As he came abreast of St. Leonard’s chapel, which stood by the street a short distance away, he ducked through the door, knocking off his feet a deacon, who was sweeping the walkway. The pursuit stopped at the door, while three men went round to the rear to prevent Clement from escaping that way.

  “Should we fetch him out?” one of the guards at the door called back to Stephen, who waved and shook his head. Clement might not be entitled to mercy under the law, but he was entitled to sanctuary fairly claimed.

  Clement’s flight and claim of sanctuary were as good as any confession as far as the neighborhood was concerned. People came up and congratulated Stephen and slapped him on the back. Stephen muttered his thanks, to be polite if nothing else. He didn’t feel as though he merited congratulations. He’d stirred up many lives and probably ruined Olivia’s. That merited regret, not celebration.

  Gradually the crowd broke up as people drifted back to work and the children to play. Clement’s helpers were the first to go, hurrying down Corve Street toward the gate to town, no doubt to carry the news of Clement’s fall to Valence. Before long, only Stephen, Margaret, James and Walter remained at the head of the alley.

  “So, after all this, it’s still missing then?” Margaret asked, dismayed. “Muryet carried the secret of its whereabouts to his grave?”

  “It is missing.” Stephen added, “But I think I know where it is.” He had spoken softly, hardly aware of saying the words, for random, seemingly unconnected thoughts had begun to swirl in his mind: an evening’s rain, a damp wool coat, a wooden peg with a missing waxy cylinder for carrying documents, a lost dagger, floating laundry – and a fish in a barrel.

  Margaret’s mouth opened in astonishment as if she had a question on her lips, although none came out, as Stephen turned to the big wooden barrel filled to the brim with drainage water from the eaves. The water appeared black as obsidian and nothing was visible in the barrel except green wisps of algae growing against the sides. The fish he thought he had seen there was gone, or seemingly so. And for a moment, his heart lurched at the prospect that he might be wrong. Stephen pulled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the blackness. The water was bitterly cold. He felt around. His fingers met nothing at first. Then he bumped something. There was a bit more fumbling until he caught it.

  He drew out a long slender leather tube, the same sort of tube hanging from the shelves in Baynard’s study, the kind of tube used to carry dispatches. Entangled in its strap and weighing it down was a dagger.

  Stephen untangled the dagger. “This belonged to Muryet, I’m sure.”

  “And that —” Margaret began wide-eyed.

  “A moment and we’ll know for certain.” Stephen fumbled with the bronze catch and opened the top of the tube. He inserted two fingers and drew out rolls of parchment. Except for one edge, they were remarkably dry, the writing on them legible.

  “It is them,” Margaret breathed.

  “Yes, I’m glad to say it is.”

  “But why are they not ruined?”

  “Tubes like these are waxed on the outside to keep documents from getting wet. The seal traps the air within especially when it’s immersed upside down — rather like air bubbles are trapped in clothes in a laundry tub.”

  “How did you know?”

  “A guess. Just a guess. The fact Clement didn’t have the lists — and neither did anyone else — meant Muryet must have hidden them before his death. I’ll wager Muryet took the documents down from the room expecting to meet the buyer. He found Clement instead. He had enough time to weigh the satchel down and hide it in the barrel without Clement seeing him. Muryet probably thought to retrieve it as soon as Clement left. Unfortunately, things did not turn out as he’d planned.”

  “Things so often do not turn out as you’d planned,” Margaret said heavily. Then she brightened. “May I see them?” She eased close, a pliant expression on her face. “May I see what you have so long striven for?”

  Stephen stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, holding her at length. “No.”

  She was shocked at the unexpected refusal. Her eyes searched his face but found only coldness. For a moment, he thought he saw hurt in her eyes, but if it was there, it did not linger long. Her own cold comprehension took its place.

  “I see. Well, I have my duty, too.” She stepped back and spoke sharply, “James! Walter! Get them! Let’s be done!”

  But neither James nor Walter moved.

  Margaret’s mouth pressed together in fury at their insubordination.

  Wincing at her fury,
James said reluctantly, “My lady, you have no idea what he’s capable of. I saw last night. It was magnificent. Four men could not take him. We two have no chance — and now he has a sword.”

  That sword was leaning up against the barrel. Stephen made no move to take it up, but it wasn’t far from his hand if he needed it. He said, “You’re the buyer, the one whom Muryet was to meet that night.”

  Margaret’s small fists balled in anger and frustration. She nodded.

  “Would Olivia have told me this too? Is that why you worked so hard last night and this morning to keep me from speaking to her?”

  “She did not know at first. James and Walter dealt for me only with Muryet. But later she knew.”

  Stephen smiled sadly. “After you returned from Marlbrook.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you made the same connection Clement did when he realized Howard was hiding on Marlbrook land — a connection you did not share with me when you easily could have done. That hut, that was the place you used to meet secretly with Olivia when you were children, isn’t it.”

  Margaret nodded slowly, almost involuntarily.

  Stephen went on, “So you rushed back to Ludlow thinking to pry out of her the last of her secrets, perhaps believing she knew the lists’ whereabouts, confessing a few of your own secrets to make it easier for her to part with hers. You couldn’t allow her to speak with me then because I’d see you for the rival you are — a more dangerous rival, I think, than Clement.”

  “I do not want to be your rival, Stephen.”

  “As you say, things so often do not turn out as you’d planned.” He looked up and down the street to see if anyone was watching. Even Mistress Webbere had disappeared. He stuffed the rolled up parchments back in the case. Then, leaving the cap off, he plunged the case into the frigid water of the barrel.

  “What are you doing!” Margaret cried. She rushed to the barrel and tried to wrench the tube from his grasp. But she was not strong enough and succeeded only in getting the both of them drenched.

  “Saving lives,” Stephen said.

  He removed the tube, which was still filled with water he did not pour out.

  Margaret gaped at him, aghast.

  Then Stephen hefted the sword, pleased with its lightness and balance. Carrying tube and sword, he strode around Margaret to the middle of the street and marched as quickly as his aching bad foot would allow toward Corve Gate.

  He did not look back.

  Even though he wanted to — badly, very badly.

  Chapter 24

  Stephen forced himself to walk at an ordinary pace until he rounded the bend in Corve Street that took him out of sight of the Webbere house. With a swift backward glance to see if they were coming or not, he quickened his pace as near to a run as he could comfortably get.

  He turned in at the path that threaded between houses and up through yards and fields to Linney Gate. Ahead, to his surprise, he saw Gilbert Wistwode, who was hurrying down the path as fast as his waddle could carry him.

  “My word, Stephen!” Gilbert gasped, his exertions of last night having done nothing to get him in shape for this. He grasped Stephen by the elbows and shook him in his delight to find him. “You’re all right! You’re free!” He glanced warily about. “I came to warn you. Come here where you’ll be safe, at least for the moment. We’d heard you are to be arrested. They said you were seen heading to Corve Street. I deduced you were continuing your investigations at the Webbere house. What have you discovered? Oh —” he said, his eyes falling on the leather tube. “You found something. Is that it?”

  Stephen nodded. “There’s been a mishap.”

  “I can see that. It’s sopping.” Gilbert took the tube from Stephen. “You haven’t even bothered pouring out the water.”

  “I thought it best if it soaked a while longer.”

  “But, but, but — you won’t be able to read a thing. Why, water dissolves ink!”

  “Clever of me, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve gone mad!”

  “Wasn’t it you who told me that the list will mean the deaths of men? I should have stolen it when I had the chance. Then Muryet at least would be alive, perhaps even Makepeese and poor Lucy. It’s strange, isn’t it, how the best intentions can cause more harm than good.”

  “You did what you thought best at the time. Think about your present and your future and — I say, why are you walking about with a sword?”

  “Clement was kind enough to lend it to me. He doesn’t have any use for it now.”

  “Clement?” Gilbert sputtered. “Stop speaking in riddles.”

  “That wasn’t a riddle.”

  “Well, it was damned unclear enough to be one.”

  Stephen couldn’t help laughing. He put his arm around Gilbert’s shoulders as they climbed the rise to town.

  They reached Linney Gate just as he finished the story. Stephen paused and poured the water out of the leather tube into the ditch. “That should do it, I hope. What does parchment look like after it’s soaked for a week?”

  “I have no idea. Probably wetter than that.” Gilbert’s hands twitched over the top of the tube. “May I?” he asked.

  “Might as well.” Stephen gave him the tube, although he itched to be moving.

  Gilbert slid out the sheets halfway and unfurled a corner. “Only smudges left. Now how will you placate Valence? If he can’t have his list, he’ll have your head instead. There’s already been quite a call for it this morning, I understand.”

  “Will Thumper’s fire,” Stephen said.

  “Yes. You won’t mention that I was there, will you? Thank goodness. Listen, young man, this is no business to take lightly. Arson and house-breaking are serious matters, and he appealed against you on both counts before Valence this morning. People hang for that, you know.”

  “Yes, Clement mentioned something like that.”

  “Well, you ought to know — you studied the law!”

  “Damn the law. We haven’t got time for it.” Stephen hurried through the gate.

  “No time for the law? What kind of nonsense is that? You’re not thinking about turning outlaw are you? Good Lord! What a frightful brigand you’ll make. I’m warning you, I’ll not be a part of that! You may not be law abiding, but I am! I am, I really am.”

  In only a few strides, Stephen reached the front door to Baynard House. He didn’t bother knocking. He just opened the door and went in. He was crossing the great hall before any of the servants took notice that the house had been invaded, and when they saw the look on his face and the sword in his hand, they all fled to the rear of the house.

  Stephen mounted the stairs two at a time and went to Olivia’s room.

  He didn’t bother knocking at this door, either.

  Olivia was awake, propped against pillows, a cup in her lap. Her hair was combed and tied behind her head, the picture of matronly neatness. But her face was puffy and badly bruised and her lips were cut and swollen.

  Stephen sat on the edge of the bed and laid the document case beside him.

  “You found it,” Olivia said.

  “I found something,” Stephen said.

  “That’s — that’s not it? That’s not the list?”

  “It is the case and the documents you delivered to Muryet last Thursday night.”

  She was silent, her eyes locked on his.

  Stephen went on, “But this case contains a copy. A copy you made.”

  “I confess, I gave Muryett the list that night to deliver to the buyer’s agents. But it was not a copy.”

  “I’ve seen the original, Olivia, or have you forgotten? In this house, in the room down the hallway. This —” he patted the document case “— was in a different hand, not your husband’s hand, and changes had been made.”

  “Ch-changes?”

  “There are names crossed out on the original, the names of men who died or were murdered. When you copied it over, you didn’t copy those names. I reme
mber one of them very well. It was that of Patrick Carter. You recall him — the poor fellow your husband and Clement killed in Ludford last month.”

  Olivia’s cheek twitched.

  Stephen said gently, “It’s true, isn’t it.”

  Olivia nodded, a mere jerk of the head, but it was a confession nonetheless.

  “Where is it now?” Stephen asked.

  “I gave it to Margaret.”

  “You just gave it to her?”

  “Last night. After she deduced that I had it. I had no idea she had been sent to recover it and she had no idea that I was the one selling it until the end. But she promised her help and her lord’s protection instead of silver.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Nigel FitzSimmons. You are acquainted with him, I understand.”

  “I know him, but not well.” It saddened Stephen to think that Margaret owed allegiance to such a ruthless man as Nigel FitzSimmons. She was harder at the core and more capable of deception than he had thought. She had known, then, that what he found in the rain barrel was a copy. But she had been just as keen to keep it out of Valence’s hands as the original, for even the copy could do great damage to her faction. She must have wanted to shout for joy when he plunged the copy back in the barrel, yet she never gave a hint of it.

  “One last thing,” Stephen said.

  “Oh?”

  “What were you doing at Mistress Webbere’s house that night? You meant to deal with the buyer through your agent, Muryet, like any lady would. There was no need for you to be present.”

  Olivia smiled wanly. “I kept the list hidden there. Under a loose floorboard where no one would ever think to look. Only I knew.”

  Stephen slid off the bed and strode out of Olivia’s room, nearly colliding with Gilbert, who blocked the door, his mouth agape in astonishment. “Out of the way,” Stephen said more harshly than he intended. “They’ll be here any minute. We have to find it.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Gilbert said.

  “Keep her there!” Stephen ordered, meaning Olivia, as he ran to Margaret’s room. “Don’t let her give the alarm!”