Simon Perryn had kept his distance, partway between villagers and priests and guards, ready to go whichever way looked best. Frevisse wanted a word with him but waited until it was settled that Father Edmund would oversee what happened with the yard and outbuildings and Father Henry keep the boys eased with stories while Elena and Agnes watched over what was done in the house. Both priests and Christopher looked then to Frevisse, she supposed in expectation she would offer to stay with Elena, but instead she said, “By your leave, then,” and with a quick bow of her head to the priests, walked away before anyone could say whether they gave her leave or not. With a small beckon of her head she gathered Perryn to her as she went, but in the street he paused to answer the onlookers’ flurry of questions with, “She knows better than I do,” leaving it to her to say tersely, “Master Montfort has accused Gilbey Dunn of Tom Hulcote’s murder.”
‘And arrested him?“ a man croaked eagerly.
‘Gilbey’s gone to Banbury market. For now they’re making do with inquiring into all he has.“
‘Ho, that’ll take them a time,“ someone else said, and sharp, eager talk sprang out among them all while Perryn looked a mixture of dismay and relief because although it was bad to have Gilbey accused, it had to mean the crowner was given up on him if Gilbey was the only one he had gone for this morning.
Frevisse could not fault him for his confused feelings, but none of the men to whom she wanted to talk was here and she cut across the general questioning and comments to ask, “Where are the jurors? They were with Montfort already today. Where are they now?”
‘Gone out to the haying,“ a bent-shouldered old man answered. ”Even old Bert. I saw ’em go.“
‘Aye,“ one of the women agreed. ”The crowner had them in but not for long, and they weren’t talking to anyone when he let them out, from what I saw.“
‘Must have said they weren’t to say aught to anyone,“ the first man put in. ”Even Bert wouldn’t share a word about what passed, just kept going. We were to have a game of draughts this morning, too.“ Which seemed to grieve him more than anything else that had happened.
‘Didn’t look happy, though, none of them,“ someone else said.
‘Have them fetched back, if you would please, master reeve,“ Frevisse said to Perryn. ”I need to talk to them.“
‘I’ll go!“ said Dickon, eager-footed at Perryn’s elbow.
‘You do that, then, youngling,“ Perryn said. ”Where to?“ he added to Frevisse.
‘The oak on the green, I think.“ Where they could talk with no chance of anyone unwanted overhearing them.
Dickon left, thrusting away between people while Frevisse said, “I need Mary Woderove fetched to me, too.”
‘Geva,“ Perryn said to a well-set, firm-armed, rosy-faced woman. ”She likely won’t throw anything at you. You tell her she’s wanted, will you? And see she comes?“
‘You want her at the oak, same as the men?“ Geva asked, and at Frevisse’s nod she went off toward the green.
‘The rest of you,“ Perryn said, ”there can’t be that little to be doing you should be standing here doing naught. Off to it, why don’t you?“
‘Do you think maybe some of us…“ a woman started with a nod toward Gilbey’s.
‘I doubt Elena Dunn needs more folk underfoot than she has,“ Frevisse said, ”or I would have stayed.“
There being no way to dispute that, what there was of a crowd straggled away, not altogether willingly, but Frevisse and Perryn stayed standing in the street until they were well gone. Then Perryn asked, with a twitch of his head toward yard and house, “You’re sure we’re neither of us needed there?”
‘Even if we were, we’re needed elsewhere more. Has Gilbey truly gone to Banbury as his wife says, or do you think he may be fled?“
Perryn shook his head. “There’s no saying.” But he was thinking about it as they started along the street toward the green and after a moment added, “But why would he run when there’s naught against him save the belt? It’s not much, no more than what’s against me, and I never thought to run.”
‘Elena said he had to take green cheeses to market.“
‘That’s likely enough, and if he’d planned to do it before yesterday happened, he’s that stubborn he’d go ahead with it, whether it made sense or not. And maybe it’s a good thing, too, or he and Master Montfort might have had at each other’s throats just now.“
That had crossed Frevisse’s mind, too, but following another thought, she asked, “Have you brought to mind yet anyone at all who most particularly dislikes Gilbey?”
‘You asked that yesterday, about us both.“
‘You’ve had more time to think on it.“
‘Not to any use. There were Tom Hulcote and Matthew, but you already know that, and they’re both dead.“ And Gilbey was not. If Perryn thought that, he did not say it, only went on, ”And Mary. But I can’t see how her hating Gilbey can have aught to do with Tom’s death or Matthew’s.“
Nor could Frevisse and without real hope she asked, “No one else?”
‘Gilbey is talked against. Him and his Banbury wife both. But it’s only the kind of talk you get when folk keep to themselves as much as they do. They’re talked on and disliked, but it goes no farther that I’ve seen.“
‘By anyone more than another?“
They had reached the oak, its thick shade welcome, and Frevisse sat on the bench, but Perryn remained standing, staring away at nothing with a thinking frown before he said regretfully, “No one. Just who I’ve said.”
And of them, two were dead, and even if Mary Woderove had for some unlikely reason killed Tom Hulcote, she could not have moved his body the way it had been moved, nor had she been at Gilbey Dunn’s, to take his belt.
Frevisse tried going a different way. “When Matthew Woderove left, was search made for him?”
‘Aye. Surely.“
‘Much of a search?“
Perryn paused again, then said quietly, “Not much. Nor for long. There were even some as were glad he’d gone, thinking he’d have better chance elsewhere than he had here.”
‘Were you glad?“
Again the pause and then, “It made trouble for me, being reeve, him running off. But otherwise I wished him well. There was naught left for him here.”
Unmourned and unmissed. That seemed to be the most that could be said about Matthew Woderove.
‘Here’s Mary coming,“ Perryn said, both wary and relieved.
Wary at having to deal with her and relieved that now Frevisse would turn her questions away from him to her? Frevisse wondered. Not that it mattered. She was wary herself at having to deal with the woman and relieved she had come without making a fight of it. From the one time she had seen her, she had no good opinion of Mary, nor did it better now, watching her walk across the green. Still in her black widow’s veil and wearing a plain brown gown—in further token of mourning Frevisse supposed, since Mary seemed not the sort likely given to plain gowns by usual choice—she even now walked with a sway of her hips and a swing of her skirts that made a— maybe unthought—invitation to any male looking her way. That her eyes were humbly downcast counted for something, Frevisse supposed, but not much.
Frevisse came up short on that uncharitable thought, tried instead to grant that maybe Mary was no more than putting on a brave front against her grief, and nonetheless did not rise to meet her or Geva. Subtlety where Mary was concerned would probably be a waste, and when the two women had curtsyed to her, Frevisse briefly thanked Geva and dismissed her, then fixed Mary with a stare and demanded, “Tell me about your last quarrel with your husband.”
Mary raised her eyes from the ground, red-rimmed from apparently much crying, and repeated blankly, “My husband? He’s dead.” She dropped her gaze groundward again. “Please let him lie in peace,” she whispered.
‘I would if I could,“ Frevisse said curtly. ”Tell me what your last quarrel with him was about. And look at me while you do.“
Wanting her angry because then she might be careless, Frevisse repeated, still curtly, “Your quarrel with your husband. Tell me.”
Mary’s face paled with in-held fury, her lips tightened to a narrow line, and her hands, until now neatly folded in front of her, spasmed into fists. But only briefly. With effort, she eased her hands, dragged her face back to a simply puzzled hurt, and said softly, as if resigned to being cruelly used, speaking to some point just past Frevisse’s ear, “It was no more than what we always quarreled over. That he wasted every chance we had and didn’t care he’d dragged me down with him.”
‘Only usual things? Nothing about the lease lost to Gilbey Dunn?“
Mary’s gaze jerked sideways to Frevisse’s face. “Of course about that,” she said with an angry edge to the words. “ ‘Twas where we started. All of our quarreling was just more of the same. Not that any of it ever did any good.”
‘Why quarrel with him then?“
‘Because it made me feel better!“
‘Where did you quarrel?“
‘Anywhere we happened to be.“
‘I mean the last quarrel you had.“
Mary drew and let go a deep, impatient breath. “In Shaldewell Field. As if you hadn’t been told and told again by all the staring big-ears in the village. What’s the point of asking about Matthew? It’s Tom was murdered here. Why aren’t you asking about him?”
‘Don’t you care who murdered your husband?“
‘Of course I care, but it didn’t happen here. Why ask me questions? Unless you think I did it!“ Mary flung the words and only afterwards, hearing them, went round-eyed with horror. ”You do! You think that, don’t you?“ She turned fiercely on her brother. ”And you stand there and let her!“
‘What I think,“ Frevisse said, cutting off whatever Perryn might have answered, ”is that I want you to answer my questions and not make trouble over it.“
Mary snapped her mouth shut, thought on that, then said sullenly, still angry but willing to try to contain it, “We quarreled. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.” She sent her brother a resentful glance and amended, “Maybe a little worse that last time. I was that mad at him for losing the lease and all.”
‘You quarreled and locked him out of his house…“
‘Our house. My house,“ Mary snapped.
‘He went to sleep in the barn and in the night ran off,“ Frevisse went on. ”Had he ever threatened to run off, this time or another?“
‘Matthew? He never threatened anything. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless he was goaded to it. Was too afraid the goose might say boo back at him,“ Mary said disgustedly.
‘But you weren’t surprised to find he was gone?“
Mary shrugged. “I didn’t think he was gone far. Not until Gilbey’s horse was found missing.”
Frevisse looked at Perryn. “Where was Gilbey’s horse taken from?”
Careful not to look at his sister, Perryn said, “It was staked out to graze with his other one. In Farnfield.” The field that Matthew Woderove had lost to Gilbey. “Well away from the village, close to the wood,” Perryn said. “He could be away with no one likely to notice.”
‘At least he showed that much sense,“ Mary said.
‘Did he take anything with him?“ Frevisse asked her, curt again.
‘Just what he had with him when he came in from the field. No, he left the hoe, and good thing, too. All he took was what he was wearing and his scrip. A good leather bag, that was. Whoever did for him must have taken it, the bastard.“
Frevisse clamped down on her growing unfondness for Mary Woderove. Under all Mary’s passions of indignation and angers, there was a coldness to her that made Frevisse doubt she had ever really warmed to anyone except herself. More than that, Frevisse was beginning to suspect that she worked at keeping others hot with anger, the better to work them to her cold will, and not meaning to be worked, Frevisse said coldly, “Now. Tell me about Tom. When did you see him last?”
‘Tom,“ Mary echoed with bitter pain. ”Just because he loved me, no one minds that he was murdered!“
Refusing to be drawn into pointing out that if she did not care, she would not be asking questions about it, Frevisse repeated, “When did you see him last?”
‘Saturday midday.“ Brought to it, Mary gave the answer flatly. ”I keep telling people that.“
‘You’d been telling him he ought to leave here, to run. Would you have run with him?“
Mary gave her brother an angry glance. “I’d have gone to him but not with him. I meant to stay here a while.”
‘Making trouble over the Woderove holding, despite you knew it would do you no good,“ Frevisse said.
Mary jerked her chin at her brother. “Why should he get off easy? Him and the others that hate me around here. If nothing else, I want my harvest off it.”
‘Why not have Tom stay until after the harvest then?“ Perryn asked, goaded. ”Then you could have gone off together with money in hand.“
‘Because I was that mad I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,“ Mary snapped back at him. ”I just saw you wanted Tom ruined, and I wanted him away before you could.“
‘Did he tell you he was going to run?“ Frevisse asked.
‘Nay. At the last all I’d had out of him was that he had to think on it a while.“
‘When you didn’t see him again, did you think he’d gone off after all?“
Mary completely refused that thought. “He’d not have gone off without saying to me he was. I thought he was still angry at me for pushing him, that’s all, and when I’d had enough of him staying away, I went to his place.”
‘When?“
‘Sunday. Early. When most folk were to Mass, so I wouldn’t have to see anyone.“
‘He wasn’t there? Or any sign of him?“ Frevisse asked.
‘Course he wasn’t there. From all they’re saying, he was dead by then, wasn’t he? But I didn’t know that, did I? All I could tell was that he’d not run. Naught was gone that he would have taken with him. So I reckoned he was about, and all I need do was wait till he came back to me.
He always came back to me. But this time…“ Her mouth suddenly trembled, making her look like a small child fighting off tears; and piteously as a small child, she said, ”… this time he never did. I never saw him again ever.“
Unmoved by Mary’s sorrow for her own pain, Frevisse asked, “Has there been anyone angry out of the ordinary with Tom? Was there anyone he was afraid of?”
‘Tom? He wasn’t afraid of anyone, was Tom. But, aye, there was someone angry at him out of the ordinary. Gilbey Dunn. Frighted for his wife with her namby town-face and hot skirts. As if Tom would have looked at that flinty bit of bitchdom.“
‘Mary!“ Perryn said.
‘You think she doesn’t know about those kind?“ Mary jerked her chin at Frevisse. ”I’ll warrant she knows more about them than you do. Flinty bitches.“
Determined to be untouched by Mary’s venom, Frevisse said, “What are you going to do now that Tom is dead?”
‘Do?“ Mary’s brittle anger was back. ”What can I do, now I’ve been robbed of everything? I’ll live somehow. I’ll…“ She made a sudden, unexpected struggle against the anger, bowed her head, and said, strangling a little on the submission, ”We have to accept what comes to us. People die. It happens. Father Edmund’s been saying that, to help me. He’s been kind.“ She gave her brother a sour look. ”Unlike some.“ She lowered her eyes again and said stiffly, ”I just want to take what’s left me and make do. That’s what Father Edmund’s been helping me to see. That I have to thank God for what I have and make do with it.“
And Father Edmund had better take care, Frevisse thought without trying to curb the unkindness, or Mary would very likely next be trying to make do with him.
Chapter 19
In the pause after she had dismissed Mary, as she watche
d her walk away, Frevisse considered her, so mean-spirited a woman that her grief was only for herself and her lost hopes, her concerns only for the wrongs done to her, not more than a jot for the wrongs done to her husband or her lover.
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