‘Same where I grew up.’ Nicholas took a bite from the apple he was eating. ‘In London. At least, for those who cared about it.’
‘How could you know?’ said Mercia, lowering herself into a chair of her own. ‘You were just a child during the wars.’
‘Childhood didn’t last long round Cow Cross. But you’re right. Round us, it was more about how to make a coin – sometimes a lot of coin – from what was happening.’
‘Noble as ever,’ said Nathan.
‘Trying to stay alive usually isn’t.’ He twisted to face him. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. If the townspeople here are now scared for their lives, they’re not about to be very noble either.’
‘No.’ Mercia tugged out a caught fold of her dress to make herself more comfortable. ‘So is any of what they have told you useful, Nat?’
‘Well.’ Nathan copied Nicholas in stretching out his legs; he looked as weary as she felt. ‘Something about everyone, it seems. Amery got up to no good in Boston when he was younger, disobeying the rules, like most kids. Godsgift isn’t the only one to change his name. Kit West did too, when he came to America. Apparently his real name is Roger, not Christ-carry.’
She could not prevent a small smile. ‘His new awakening?’
‘I suppose. And there is a lot of finger pointing at Thorpe.’ He pushed off the back of his seat, leaning his elbows on his thighs. ‘People seem very ready to give him the blame. All sorts of ridiculous tales. Humility’s wife Sarah told me he was once seen talking to a goat, like that meant something. And a group of lads – Obedience, is it? – said they see him skulking around the forest at night, that he did for his own wife, but I think they just don’t like him.’ He hesitated. ‘And that he was seen outside Clemency’s cottage the night of her murder.’
‘What?’ She rounded on him. ‘You left this until last?’
‘Those lads were playing about, Mercia, spreading rumours, prittle-prattle. You know the sort.’
‘Even so, sometimes there is truth in rumour.’
‘That’s right. And so just in case, I went to Fearing’s farm and talked to some of the men there. I thought as I’ve been helping them, they might be more ready with the truth.’ He held up a hand before she could interrupt. ‘One of them did tell me something that supported what the boys said, claiming Godsgift had been overheard talking with Lavington about someone he had seen on his rounds that night. But when anyone asked about it, Godsgift merely ignored them.’
‘Nat, we cannot dismiss anything. Did the man on the farm think it was Thorpe?’
‘No. But he did make another guess.’ He shuffled his chair closer to hers. ‘And this is one story I think you should hear.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘I know what he said, but I still want to see him.’
Mercia stood in the tiny hall of Godsgift Brown’s cottage, the same she had marched from the day she had found Clemency dead, and still the constable was proving obstructive. Or at least his indentured servant was, her hand on the wall blocking Mercia’s way.
‘And I told you, Mrs Blakewood, he needs his rest.’ The gaunt woman’s mouth was turned down. ‘He has two grave wounds in his legs.’
‘Yes, Rose.’ Mercia tried a conciliatory tone. ‘I was there. I just want to wish him well.’
‘Even so, he does not want—’
She lost her patience. ‘You have been in the streets, Rose? Heard tell of these murders everyone now seems to believe?’
Rose pulled her hand from the wall, fiddling with the cuff of her black dress. ‘It is God’s judgement, Mrs Blakewood. God’s punishment.’
‘Maybe so. But you want to stop them, don’t you? Protect your town?’
Her eyes widened. ‘You don’t think … there could be more?’
‘I do not know.’ She softened her harsh timbre. ‘But I do know the constable is the man who can help us.’ She smiled in reassurance. ‘Please. Let me in.’
Rose wavered, looking through the open front door. In the street, Seaborn Adams was gesturing wildly at Humility Thomas, the tavern keeper shaking his head.
‘Well … if he doesn’t ask you to leave. Go up, on the left. He is decent.’
Mouthing a thank you, Mercia edged past and climbed the stairs, knocking two forceful raps before entering the room. The constable was lying on his bed, his wounded legs both bandaged. His face was a terrible white, and he was sprawled on the covers with none of his usual decorum. A book at his side lay unopened, his fingers curled on the bound cover as though that were as far as he could manage.
His closed eyes flicked open. Despite his condition, he still managed to look aggrieved.
‘I told that woman not to let anyone up,’ he croaked. ‘I would not long speak to Lavington and I will certainly not speak to you.’
She pushed shut the door and came in. ‘“That woman” is concerned for you.’
‘Then she should not be.’ He winced in pain, reaching towards his right thigh. She looked at it; the bandage was well applied, but red had still seeped through.
‘Has the arrow been removed?’
‘Thorpe cut it out.’ He fell back on his pillow. ‘Whatever else he is, he is very good at that.’
‘I am glad.’ She looked over his face, his unkempt hair. At the side of his bed, his rapier lay discarded on the floor. ‘In spite of what Sooleawa said you did to her tribe.’
He coughed: a pitiful attempt. ‘I might have known you would side with that, over me.’
‘Constable, we can discuss your past when you are better. For now I merely need you to confirm something I have learnt, and I will leave you to your book.’ She tilted her head to examine its fine cover. ‘To your Bible.’
‘It is hard to read.’ He leant up on his elbows, or he tried to, for he quickly dropped back on the quilt. ‘Mrs Blakewood, I am not going to explain what I have done in my life to protect others. If you have a question to ask, do so and leave.’
She nodded, her attention briefly caught by a blood-splattered doublet hanging from the wall, presumably what he had been wearing under his armour in the wood.
‘It is about the murders. If only you and Lavington had confided in me sooner, in Percy, then perhaps we could have worked together to prevent Silence’s death.’
‘Percy could have confided in us.’ Godsgift sucked in air through his teeth as his left leg twitched. ‘He is so very secretive, that one. He thinks I do not know what he does, when most everyone here applauds him for it.’
‘Applauds him for …?’
‘I know he has talked of it with you, so do not pretend.’ He made another attempt to pull himself up. ‘Those men he helps are heroes. Good soldiers, fighting their fight, as I do.’ The effort became too great and he sank again into the sheets. ‘Now speak.’
She coughed, recovering herself. ‘It is about the night of Clemency’s death.’
The lightest of frowns caused the strongest of winces. ‘What about it?’
‘Nathan has heard a curious allegation I need you to explain.’ She opened the door a crack to check Rose was not listening and then shut it again, lowering her voice. ‘And this time, Constable, when I ask what you saw that night, I hope you will decide to speak true.’
Beads of sweat dripped down her back as she sidled further from the roaring forge, waiting for Vic Smith to hammer his fourth horseshoe into shape. He had been working the first when she had arrived in his yard, but she had not wanted to risk his leaving before they could talk, and so she waited, sipping ale, turning red in her too-heavy dress, pondering how she would phrase what she wanted to ask when he finally finished his work. For safety, Nicholas was stationed in the street, but she hoped she would not need to call on his physical talents. Nathan had gone to check on Remembrance: Mercia had seen no reason to wait for his return, notwithstanding the assurance she had given that she would.
She broke from her musings as the ringing ceased. Despite the force of each hammer strike, Vic did not seem out
of breath. He pulled a torn cloth from a nail on a post, wiping his torso of sweat and grime, then threw a woollen shirt over his head, letting the material slide down before freeing his tied-back hair, shaking the black strands into place. Taking his own swig of ale, he fixed her with a steady glance and traversed the dusty yard.
‘Now you should be able to make a shoe as well as I can.’
She put on a smile. ‘You are very proficient.’
‘I try.’ He took another swig from his cup. ‘So what do you want?’
She took a deep breath, inhaling a profound smell of smoke. ‘Nathan told me an interesting story earlier.’
‘Oh?’
‘He heard it in the town. People are beginning to talk.’
‘After all this? Can’t say I’m surprised.’
Another breath. Courage, Mercia.
‘This story is about you. More to the point, about you and Clemency.’ She ignored the chill in her stomach as she reached inside her pocket. ‘I found these in her cottage.’
‘Pieces of paper?’ His fingers twitched on his cup.
‘Letters.’
She extended her arm. Setting the cup on a low wall, he took the proffered sheets, quickly scanning the first leaf and reading to the end. Then his eyes raked over the other sheets. She watched his expression, but it was unfathomable.
‘Well.’ He ran a tongue around his cheek. ‘These are interesting.’
‘Interesting? If certain people were to read them, they would say the writer was immoral.’
Still no reaction. ‘I try not to judge folk.’
‘But many do.’ She nodded at the letters now dangling in his fingertips. ‘Careful. They may drift into your forge.’
‘Then nobody would be offended by them, at least.’ He glanced again at the sheets of paper. ‘Is this all of them?’
‘You should know.’
A slight frown. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about Clemency.’
‘We are. Those letters are addressed to her.’
‘I can see that.’
‘As I can see you wrote them.’
Slowly, he raised his head. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I dislike rumour, Vic.’ She sighed for effect, and straightaway wished she had not. ‘But here is a rumour that fits the facts. And … you are not denying it.’
He folded his arms, the letters crumpling against his chest. ‘You dislike rumour, you say. Well, I dislike lies. I ask again, why do you say I wrote these?’
‘I would be careful, Vic. People are starting to accuse each other. Accusing you.’
‘Who is?’
‘That does not matter.’
‘Who?’
She waved a hand, as much to steady herself as anything. ‘One of those people we dislike, Vic, who likes pouring blame on others. Someone overheard amidst a group of tattlers.’
His face was as rigid as one of his iron tools. ‘Then no doubt their claim is baseless.’ He wedged the letters beneath his cup. ‘We may be close out here, Mrs Blakewood, but we still have the same enmities you do.’
‘That is becoming clearer every day.’ An uncomfortable heat was creeping up her body, not entirely from her warm surroundings. ‘And talking of close, it seems you and Clemency were close once. The sort of close that gets mischievous people talking.’ She hesitated, but she had come this far. ‘It seems you laughed it off, but some people noticed the long looks. Even so, nobody gave it much credence – until now, when they are forced to accept she was killed. Now, they are ready to believe anything, so long as it turns the blame from them.’
He looked away, just briefly, but she was watching. ‘I’m disappointed, Mrs Blakewood. I did not think you so ready to place credence in clattermouths.’
‘But you did write those letters, Vic. Stop pretending.’
He took a step forward, but she held her ground. And then he seemed to deflate, his shoulders losing their tautness: a chink in his guard, perhaps? He turned away, rubbing the back of his head.
‘Do you … intend to tell the town?’
A chink indeed. ‘That depends.’
‘I could deny it if you do.’
‘What happened to disliking lies?’
A long pause. A long sigh. Unlike her earlier pretence, his seemed genuine. ‘She told me she had destroyed them.’
A gaping crack. ‘I found them in her house.’
‘It does not do to rifle through other people’s belongings, Mrs Blakewood.’
‘I do not think Clemency would have minded, in the end.’ She bore his accusing gaze. ‘You seem remarkably calm, Vic. Even with this … revelation. With all that happened yesterday, the rest of the town has fallen into panic.’
‘You know full well I always thought these were murders. I gave you that cloth, didn’t I? And you don’t seem so bothered yourself.’
‘Believe me, I am.’
He yanked at the letters, sending his cup crashing to the ground. ‘Then what do you mean threatening me with these?’
‘They are a motive for murder, would you not say?’ Inside, the heat burnt stronger.
‘You don’t think I—’ He laughed. ‘Have you read these? I was in love with Clemency. Why in heaven would I have wanted her dead?’
A chasm at last. ‘An individual sort of love, Vic. Those letters speak of some uncommon tastes.’
His face darkened. ‘Who have you shown these to?’
‘I hope I need not show them to anyone. I am not interested in marking people out for unjust condemnation. But there are others still hidden away. I would not retaliate too strongly.’
His eyes flicked to the doorway, and for a moment she thought she had pressed him too far. Even with Nicholas’s reflexes she could be in danger were Vic to make any sudden move. But he merely tensed on the spot.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just your help.’
‘If it’s to do with the murders, I’ve already done that.’
‘And you are afraid that if you do more, then whatever hold Lavington has on you will be used to hound you out of town? But that will not happen. Lavington is as keen to solve these murders as I am. He has confessed he has thought so all along.’
‘Perhaps you are just saying that. And Lavington has the same hold on me that you now have.’
She nodded; ever since Nathan had related the farmer’s tale, she had suspected as much. ‘Yet I think you do want to help.’ She glanced again at the letters in his hand. ‘I have read those several times while trying to work all this out. I had hoped they might lead me to the killer, and they yet may, but less directly than I had thought.’
‘You read much into simple words, Mrs Blakewood.’
‘Maybe. And there may be some perversities in those words, some proposals I do not wish to dwell upon, but in spite of that, one thing is quite clear.’
‘And what is that?’
‘That you did love her, Vic.’ She paused, observing his face. ‘You loved her when you wrote those letters, and you loved her when she died. You still do, I think.’ She stepped closer. ‘That is why you gave me the code. Because you loved her and you wanted her killer found.’
He bowed his head. ‘Please. I have a wife. A son.’
‘Yet you were obsessed with Clemency. You kept it as quiet as you could, yes, but you made enough people wonder. And so I think it was you she talked of the day she died, when she spoke of matters she had to conclude. I thought she meant correspondence, or her medicines, but now I think she meant you.’
He shook his head. ‘I never harmed her.’ His whole body seemed to shrink. ‘I would never have harmed her.’
‘But you made her uncomfortable.’
His red face paled. ‘I didn’t kill her. I swear it. Neither her, nor Silence.’
‘And yet still there are those letters. Others might not be so ready to believe you in this newfound climate of mistrust.’ She pressed home, making herself hard for Clemency’s sake. ‘Godsgift has admitted he saw you near her h
ouse that night, in the shadows. That he believed you were sincere when you said the day after you had not killed her. But I know about the letters, Vic, and Godsgift did not.’ She twisted her blade still deeper. ‘I will not tell anyone, as long as you help me in exchange. All I want to know is what you saw that night. You were there for some time, it seems. If you truly are innocent, I need you to speak.’
He swallowed. ‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Even now, Vic? What is more important? Your unfounded fear I might tell your wife, or your loyalty to the woman you claim to have loved?’
The strong man had become a miserable boy, fallen against the wall for support. She felt sick she had done this to him, but if he did know anything, she needed to know it too.
‘Vic? Lavington will not harm you now. There is no need to keep silent.’
He could not look at her. ‘I was there a long time, ’tis true.’ His voice was shaking. ‘I-I often was. I had to see her, don’t you see? It was a sickness. And Godsgift knew, although I had learnt in time how to hide from his patrols. He threatened to tell my wife if I did not stop, but all I did was make sure to be careful.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Then that night, Clemency called me to her house, and she told me to leave her be. So I was upset, confused, and this time Godsgift saw me. I promised to go home, but my sickness lured me back, and when I heard the footsteps …’ He swallowed. ‘But I didn’t think it mattered. Not like giving you the cloth.’ His jaw shook. ‘Or her bodice.’
‘My God.’ She stared in disbelief. ‘That was you?’
He nodded sadly. ‘When she was changed, before her burial, I offered to burn the clothes she was … killed in. I took them to my forge, but I kept the bodice. I wanted something of hers, to cherish still.’ A tear dropped to the dry earth. ‘But I knew I could not keep it. If my wife found out … if God found out …’
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