“Aye, but you have documented cases of heresy and misinterpretation. No one knew if the Dread Lady left because the Bishop came and cleansed the house or if it was because my great grandfather finally opened his purse strings wide enough to get the chimney draft fixed.”
She snorted and allowed herself to be led along the street. “We shall see.” She was ready for a change of subject, so she said, “I though we were meeting at the shop.”
“As if I would allow you to wander the streets at night unaccompanied.” He looked at her sidelong, and said, “And don’t roll your eyes; ‘tis not ladylike.”
She settled for a humph, then. “Well, are we just out for a moonlight stroll, or shall we make plans?”
“Ah, but I’ve a plan already. Quite a good one, in fact.”
He held her in suspense as he helped her avoid an icy puddle. They joined the crowd walking down the main street. The shops were closed, but the torch lighters, who had spent all day heating torch coals in a forge, had taken their nightly stroll already, filling each street lamp basket with the bright stones that would light the night until past midnight. In larger cities, the torch lighters would come out again then, with a new iron wagon of coals and replace them, but not here.
Many people were gathered around the iron posts, warming their hands on them. The coals acted like small furnaces, so that, near them, the cold was not so bitter. In the morning, the coals would be collected, the cracked ones crushed and used as fuel, the ones that survived the night thrown in the forge to be rolled and heated again.
“Well?” she asked, realizing he was not continuing. “Allow me in on your mysterious secret?”
“We are going to visit the scene of the crime. This time of night, the only person in the Bishop’s house is his old housekeeper. She knows me and I think she quite likes me. She is a bit lonely for company, so I thought we’d pay her a visit.”
“And I keep her company while you excuse yourself and take a look around? Why do I have to be the one to sit and nod politely while my soul slowly withers away with boredom?”
“Because I’m the man. That means that I get to do all the interesting things. ‘Tis what my sister-in-law always says, at any rate.”
“Finally, words of wisdom from that quarter! Who would have thought?”
“That is rather surprisingly sharp,” he said, without judgment in his tone. “What has dear Bonny done to offend you? Ah, let’s cross this bridge; it will take us to our destination faster.” They would have to go around the lamp post and up the ramp leading to the bridge, but instead William picked her up by her waist and lifted her over the knee high wall and onto the pathway. “I hope I shan’t get in trouble—a past suspect taking a look around—but it can’t be helped.”
“She wants to burn my dress,” she burst out, sensing that the topic was less than interesting to him. Pity that, for she had no one else to talk to.
“Eh?” He looked at her. “There’s not enough light to really see, but if ‘tis the one from earlier, the dress is nice enough, certainly not ready to be burned.”
“No, not this! My wedding dress. My family’s wedding dress.” She had explained to him the concept, so she hoped he recalled the importance.
He frowned, then gently steered her so that she was closer to the wall of the bridge, and therefore safer. “Is it decent?”
“Decent?”
“Ah. Does it ... cover? Everything?”
She stopped, glaring at him. “Do I look like the type of woman who would wear something that did not ... cover ... everything at my own wedding?”
“Ah, answers that, then.” He took her arm again and tugged her forward. “I just don’t understand what she’s on about. If it fits you, if you like it, then as far as I’m concerned you may wear it.”
“Oh. Thank you, very much.” Her tone let him know she did not feel the need for his permission in how she dressed herself.
“You rolled your eyes again.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“I heard it in your voice. In any rate, I am certain you will be lovely as ever. Now, look to the right. That is where we are going. Is it not a pretty little place?”
“It is. Very well favored.” It was, all neatly trimmed stone, with white framed windows, but still it seemed a little sad, a little dreary, for while all the windows in the neighboring houses had lights that burned cheerfully, only one could be seen burning here. William pulled the bell chain and waited by the wrought iron gate, his hand curving over a curlicue of iron vine.
She shivered and pulled her cloak a little closer. It seemed to take a long while, but William was patient, and after a time she could hear the shuffle of feet come along the path to the gate. The woman who came into view was not hunched over or bent, but she gave the impression of a person who had once been tall and impressive.
“I don’t know if I should smile or curse at you, lad,” she said, tugging on the thick white braid that lay across her shoulder, “but I will let you in. Now that the authorities are gone no one bothers visiting an old lady.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Hobbs, this is Tasmin Bey, my intended.” William touched her shoulder.
Tasmin smiled as William introduced her, and she followed them both along the path, listening to William teasing the other woman gently, and her chucking, clicking responses. She could see the house must be lovely in the daylight, and wondered if the place would fall into disrepair now that the Bishop was gone, or if his replacement would take over the house. Doubtless the latter, she comforted herself. No one would leave the housekeeper there for kindness sake; if they meant to close the house up she would probably be living somewhere else.
“So, you did not get the gate?” William began asking about that night.
“No, the stable lad got it, but I was the one who answered the door. It was just a messenger boy; he had one of Pencote’s little gold and burgundy jackets on. Cruelty in this weather; I thought they had heavy cloaks for the winter.”
“Pencote’s?” Tasmin murmured as they reached the house proper. She was trying to think why the description seemed familiar.
“The only messenger service in town. If you want something delivered, you usually hire one of his lads if you don’t have servants.”
She nodded, turning her attention back to the housekeeper, who was standing in the now open doorway. A little lantern light streamed out from behind her.
“He was right there, and he was holding a blue box with one of your cards on it.” She pointed at the gate.
“What did he look like?” William asked, stepping up.
Mrs. Hobbs looked at Tasmin, who was huddling next to William for warmth. She tilted her head, and said, “You’ll laugh, but he looked a lot like her. Features like a woman, dark hair, large eyes, short, but that’s all I can tell you. Why would I pay attention? Just a lad like all the others. Still, he had a soft voice. He handed me the box and scampered off, not even staying for his tip. I assumed he was not willing to wait in the cold for an old woman to drag out her coins. Now I wonder—do you suppose he knew what was in the box?”
“That is quite a fair question.” William looked at Tasmin, then stepped aside and allowed her to enter the house and leave the cold. Mrs. Hobbs led them to the back of the house, through the kitchen to her own private room, a tiny but very warm space with a heavily curtained bed and two chairs. Tasmin warmed her hands over the fire with unabashed joy. It was an odd set-up, in some ways. The fireplace was double sided; she could see through into the kitchen.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Hobbs moved the curtains and sat on the bed, leaving the chairs to them. William took Tasmin’s cloak and placed it over his own. If he was surprised that she did not stand on the ceremonies a housekeeper would have been expected to perform, such as the taking of the outer garments and offering tea, he did not show it. Perhaps the Bishop’s death had made her tired
. Tasmin considered it, as she sat down. The death of a beloved employer would have done the same to her own self, she was sure. “I took it in to Himself, who was surprised to see the box. Even he said he’d have thought you would have delivered it personally, like you always brought stuff. But then you were expecting a bit of pay, which of course would make it more worth your while.”
“I would have come,” William said. “We were not friends—I could not puff myself up to that honor—but I did genuinely like him.”
She looked at William and then shrugged. She did not reassure him, and Tasmin thought that she was still angry over the Bishop’s murder or perhaps not entirely sure of William’s innocence. “He offered me some but I saw they all had nuts in them. I can’t stand ‘em, they make me horrible sick, so I said it were too late for an old lady like me to eat anything. So he said, ‘Tomorrow, then’ and let me go.”
“Nuts?” William said slowly, thinking.
“When did you see him again?” Tasmin asked, and then felt badly because she thought that indelicate. “Please, forgive me. I know it’s a terrible memory for you.”
“I was in bed for the night,” Mrs. Hobbs said, with the quiet fortitude of someone who was used to loss. “When I heard the most awful hallooing and howling outside. I went to see Himself, but he wasn’t abed, so I went to the study. He was laying on the floor.” She visibly shut away that memory, and continued, “I forgot to find out what the noise was about; I was more concerned with other matters.”
“May I see his study?” William asked.
“You know where it is; go ahead,” she said dully, staring into the fire.
Tasmin leaned forward. “I shall stay. We can speak of better things.” The old woman shook her head.
“You go with him, Miss. This old woman needs time to gather herself.”
She smiled at Mrs. Hobbs, wishing she knew something better to do for her, and followed William down a long hall to the study, which was much as she expected. William went around, lighting the lamps, throwing into view books, and furniture, and trinkets. She frowned at a space on the tight packed shelves, but ignored it.
“How did you meet the Bishop?” she asked idly, looking at a globe. It was more beautiful than any she’d ever seen, the continents a brightly colored stone, the water a pale brown granite. She wondered why the water was brownish, instead of blue, and then saw the other globe, which was a deep, appealing blue, but instead of the land it marked the stars. She went over to it, looking at the constellations with more interest than she should, for this was not what she was here for. This thought forced her attention back to William, to see if he was avoiding the question, but he was kneeling under the desk, looking for clues. She decided to join him.
“I met him” —William paused to pick up a piece of paper— “during the Pandora Campaign.” He sat up and looked at the paper in the light, then sighed and put it on the desk.
She knelt on the carpet and began looking around the edges of the room. “The Pandora Campaign? Is that what they call it now?” She remembered it well. When she had heard that the MS Tregaurde, of which William had been the Captain at the time, had been one of the ships to engage in the battle, she’d not been able to concentrate properly until she’d received his next letter, days after. Not that she would inform him of that.
“More like a chase than a campaign,” he said with a soft laugh. “In fact, that’s what we all called it, the Pandora Chase. We rescued the Bishop and some of his men from a ship that had tried to engage the Pandora, but had failed. All that was left of the poor thing was a few boards. Blasted shame, the captain of that ship, the Nymphe, was as fine a man as you could wish to meet. So then, we took chase, when we heard what the Pandora’s cargo was.”
“I never did understand the point. Our forces and the forces of King Veroz-Krom racing each other to capture a pirate ship; what did it all signify?” What was it, she wondered, about a pirate ship that could unite Berengaria and Pandroth in a cause, when the two countries have hated each other for generations?
He was silent for a long time, and then said, “I don’t rightly know. In any case, there is nothing under this desk but some broken quills. Poor Mrs. Hobbs must be getting tired, I’d have thought she would keep better house.” It also proved, Tasmin thought, that perhaps the authorities had not been as thorough searching as they should be. Her thoughts were quickly confirmed.
“Perhaps it is good that she doesn’t,” Tasmin said, his answers, or lack thereof, completely forgotten. “I think I found some chocolate.”
“Don’t touch it,” he said, pleased, “you wonderful woman. Let me get something to put it in.”
He took two sheets of parchment and folded them, making a sort of box on one end before he got down on the floor next to her. She pointed to the piece, which was hidden behind the leg of a chair. He nodded and moved the furniture aside, then used the box to scoop it up. He carefully wrapped the rest of the paper around it.
“We’ll take a closer look at that when we get to the shop.”
He went over to the fire grate and she continued her search. “No papers in the fire, and it doesn’t look like the ash-boy has been to clean up the ashes, so unless Mrs. Hobbs came in here and started a fire ...”
William poked through the ashes, as if double checking for something interesting. “I assume that he received the chocolates, placed them on the desk.”
He walked over to the desk, and she, done with her search, came and joined him, “And sat down...” he did so, “and began writing ... something.”
“Perhaps in his journal?” She tapped the book, which sat on the corner of the desk. William frowned distastefully, yet drew it forward.
“It’s fairly new,” he said; indeed, it held only two entries, the last one smeared, and replicating itself on the page opposite. Someone had shut the book before even blotting the writing. “Please, try to see if he had others?”
“If he did, I am willing to wager they were right there.” She nodded to the wide, blank space in the shelves that had bothered her earlier.
She walked over and inspected the smeared dust at the edge of the shelf, and looked back at William, who frowned as if the shelves had insulted him gravely.
“But I shall keep looking. Does what you have speak to anything of importance?”
“Nay, ‘tis a record of everyday things. He bought a new pair of horses to replace the team that pulls his carriage and he describes them in overwinded, but loving detail. He lists what he had for dinner, which was fish-trifle pie and ale.”
“Ugh, no wonder he was eager to have some chocolate ... clear that taste out of his mouth.”
“What is wrong with fish-trifle pie and ale?” She gave him a look of such horror that he laughed. “Don’t worry, I quite agree with your sentiments. I like my fish and my trifle separate.”
She shuddered delicately and went back to her search. Then she stopped and looked at the shelves again. “What kind of man was the bishop? Was he very organized?”
“I suppose that he was. His desk is in good order.”
“William, will you look at these shelves? There’s something bothering me, and I just cannot put my finger on it.”
“Or you can, and are hoping for confirmation that you’re not grasping at straws,” he said as he joined her. “Well, that is odd, I think. A clergyman would never put Auterach’s Commentary next to Histories of the Ancients. The Bishop was fairly fervent in his beliefs; his holy books would have all been in one section.”
“And those books, the set of Curiosities and Wonders of our World? The volumes are set back on the shelves with no accounting at all for order.”
“His desk also shows signs of having been searched. Things put back, but not quite right. As if the person, or perhaps persons, conducting the search didn’t care if anyone knew. Which would, of course, mean the authorities investigating th
e murder. So this is no surprise at all, truly. Anyone wishing to conduct a proper investigation would do much the same.”
“Would they take the journals?”
“Quite probably. They would wish to look through them to see who would have a motive for killing the bishop.”
“So, my grand observation means naught. Maybe they were just thorough.”
“Not as thorough as you,” he said, tapping his pocket and smiling. She returned the smile, feeling quite pleased as they returned to Mrs. Hobbs. “I have one last question,” he asked her gently. “Did the police search the Bishop’s sleeping chambers as well, or did they concentrate their efforts on the study?”
“Just the study?” she asked, almost derisively. “Nay, lad, they turned over every stone in this place. Even forced me out of my own room so they could pick through my things. And that man ... their head, he kept asking me if there were any secret compartments or hiding places where Himself might have kept papers. ‘We want to see if there are any clues that might tell us who would kill the Bishop,’ and I said no, there weren’t, just as there weren’t no one who’d want to kill poor Edgar, him being the only decent Bishop we’ve ever had, always worrying about his people.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Hobbs. I shall miss him,” William said kindly.
“I hope that you will, sir.”
All in all, Tasmin was glad to be shut of the place, though not to be back in the cold night air. “Do you think we gained anything?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound overly pleased. “We do have one of the suspect chocolates; that will be a great help, I feel quite victorious.”
The wind had fangs, and she tried not to give into the temptation to snuggle a little closer to him for his warmth.
“There’s a public house ahead, one of the few that allows ladies. Shall we go in, and get some hot cider?”
“I would be beyond grateful.”
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