“I vow to you I had naught to do with Crofton’s death,” he replied. But that was not the question Kit had asked. “The man killed himself.”
“I have another question.” Kit eyed his cousin. “Do you happen to know a lad named Rodge Anwicke?”
Wat looked genuinely confused. “Who?”
“A boy. Red-haired. A cottager’s son.”
“Why might I know a cottager’s son?”
Could he trust Wat? “I wish I could say.”
* * *
Bess sat by the hall’s hearth after supper, tucked onto the settle, which trapped the fire’s warmth with its high back. Logs popped and spit sparks upon the hearth. Joan came and set a blanket upon Bess’s knees.
“Do you require aught else, Mistress?” she asked.
“No. But I find I am exhausted. These past few days have been terrible,” she said. “Though it seems we are near to understanding who is responsible.”
“You believe the constable will act upon what you have shown him?”
Bess looked over at Joan. She did not trust officers of the law. Life in London alleys had taught her that too often watchmen and petty constables cared only for the complaints of the wealthy, who deemed it of primary importance that their skirts and robes not brush against the poor of the streets, vermin to be eradicated.
“I have no choice but to believe,” she said. “He must act.”
“Aye, Mistress.”
Joan departed, and Quail loped into the room. With a hearty sigh, the dog sank upon the flags near the hearth.
“Aunt Bess?” Margery called from the doorway that led to the stairs by the service rooms. Barefoot, she hugged her night rail about her shift. “Might I speak with you?”
“Of course.” Bess beckoned Margery to join her. “Why are you not asleep, though?”
Margery took Robert’s chair, drawing her knees to her chest. “I would apologize for being angry that you questioned Bennett. I’ve come to realize you merely wish to absolve him of any guilt.”
In the soft firelight, with her braided hair hanging past her shoulders, she looked like a young girl instead of a young woman in love with the wrong man.
“Margery, have you noticed a man in brown robes at Langham Hall recently?”
“Are you asking if I have seen a priest there?” She scowled. “You still mistrust them.”
“That is no proper response,” said Bess. “Have you?”
“There are always servants about. I pay them no heed.”
Mayhap that fellow simply was a servant, and Bess had no cause to wonder otherwise.
She contemplated her niece. “Bennett’s mother has provided an alibi for him.”
Margery looked appalled. “You asked her?”
“She offered when I told her I’ve come to believe your stepfather was murdered.”
“Well, I am glad he cannot be blamed.”
“As am I,” said Bess, though Mistress Langham’s word would not be enough to save her son if the constable doubted Bennett’s innocence. “By the by, Constable Harwoode has found your stepfather’s hat, which had been missing, and the boy who had hidden it. A possible link to Fulke’s death.”
“Does Mother know of this news?”
“I sent Joan to tell her this afternoon. Before supper.” The oak draw-leaf table sat folded moved aside by the wall. Margery had not joined Bess for the meal, and it was lonely to eat there by oneself.
“I wish I knew who would harm my stepfather. ’Tis true he argued and fought with many people—surely you recall my mother’s complaint that none would share a bowl with us at the revels this summer—but to go this far?” Margery hugged her bent knees closer. “Did you think my stepfather was a bad person, Aunt Bess?”
“I thought Fulke had a great temper. But bad? No.”
“When I was younger, he used to scare me so. Other times, he could be witty and kind. He gave me a poppet for my tenth Christmas, and I thought it meant he cared as much for me as he did for his sons …” She shook her head. “I cannot believe this has happened. Such a bad dream I want to awaken from. A horrid nightmare.”
Bess leaned over and touched her arm. “I pray we find resolution soon.”
“I merely want life to return to normal. Will that ever be possible?”
Bess thought of London and the visit by the searcher of the dead and Martin’s cold body. She had longed for normal then. It was not to be had.
“Go to bed, sweeting. And rest well.”
Margery rose, kissed her upon the cheek, and retired upstairs to her chamber. Quail lifted his head to watch her go, then dropped it to his paws again.
Bess tucked the blanket about her waist and closed her eyes. Joan would leave her thus until the fire dwindled and the room turned cold.
She had to have dozed, for she was awakened by the sound of Quail barking. Throwing off the blanket, she got to her feet.
In the entry passage, Joan was chiding the dog to be quiet.
“Joan, what is it?” Bess called, treading across the room and opening the door to the passageway. “Quail, hush now.”
Joan had grabbed the scruff of Quail’s neck to pull him away from the door. “First he started at the kitchen window, scaring me so that I dropped the pot I was cleaning. And now this.”
Bess stepped forward to unlatch the door.
“Mistress, stop!” Joan cried, her terror clearly seen even in the shadows of the passageway.
“Do you think we are in danger from what is beyond that door?” Bess asked.
“Quail does not bark without cause,” she said.
Bess retreated to the hall doorway.
“Ensure all the doors are barred, Joan.” She stared at the thick door and was glad for its solidness. “And the windows latched tight.”
CHAPTER 11
“See that you keep the door locked while I am at the baker’s, Mistress,” said Joan, securing her blue fustian cloak tight about her. Bess had given it to her out of Martin’s belongings, and it brushed Joan’s shoe tops. She had need of the cloak that morning, for the day had dawned with the sky spitting a fine drizzle, cold and ugly.
“’Tis daybreak, Joan. None will disturb us now. Further, I have the brave Quail to keep me safe.” She patted the dog’s head as he sat at her side.
Joan looked dubious. “If an intruder be a waterfowl, then Quail will be most fierce indeed.”
“Fret not.”
Tossing the cloak’s hood over her head and gathering the basket that waited by the door, Joan departed and picked a path down the road, the compacted gravel shiny from rain. Bess was about to close the door when she spotted the robust shape of the churchwarden, his rabbit-fur-lined black robe swirling about his legs, headed in the direction of Robert’s house.
“Widow Ellyott,” said Master Enderby upon arriving at the front threshold. The weight of his role had carved sternness across his heavy features, outlined by a rounded beard. Or perhaps the sternness had existed before he’d been made churchwarden, his character a perfect match to the flinty nature of his occupation.
“Welcome.” Bess ushered him inside. The smell of camphor and pennyroyal clung to his black robe, black doublet, and black hose. A cloud of scent, stingingly sharp in the damp morning air. “My maid has gone to the baker’s, else I would offer you food. We have malmsey in the buttery, if you would care for some wine this morning.”
“No need.” He shook droplets of rain from his robe and onto the woven rush matting beneath his feet. Some sprinkled beyond the covering of the rushes to land upon the tile. “I shall not be long.”
Bess made no move to invite him farther into the house. “Have you come with some news about the inventory of my brother-in-law’s goods?”
“It has concluded. But I am not here in that regard,” he said. “You were seen leaving Langham Hall yesterday. What was your business there?”
She and Bennett had warned Margery to stay away from the Langhams. Bess had not considered that she need heed the advice as well.
“I was called to tend to a kitchen servant who had cut her hand.”
“No other reason?”
“None. I tended the girl’s wound and left immediately thereafter.”
Master Enderby cocked his head. “It is my understanding that the son courts the daughter of your sister. A young woman who stays with you at this time.”
She lifted her chin. He overstepped the limits of his authority; he was but the man who collected fines and fees for the church, ensured that the churchyard was maintained and the prayer books kept in supply. He might fine her for not attending services and transfer possession of all of Dorothie’s goods to Wat Howe, but he was not quite so powerful as he imagined.
However, he was powerful enough.
“My family does not welcome Bennett Langham’s suit,” Bess said. “Neither does Mistress Langham approve, I suspect. My niece’s friendliness toward him is merely the fruitless pursuit of a silly, young woman.”
“They are seen together often.”
“He will be returning to Bristol soon. Once he has finished the Michaelmas accounts.”
His eyebrow twitched the faintest amount. She had revealed too much knowledge of Bennett Langham’s business. Guard your tongue better, Bess.
“I have another, more vexatious concern.” His stare burrowed into her head. “You missed a church service last Sunday. You know the punishment for recusancy.”
Fines. Banishment and loss of property, or jail and death, if the quantity of her misdeeds grew great enough.
“I do, but I am no recusant. I have allowed the needs of my patients to draw me away from my duties to God. Needs that do not respect day or time,” she replied.
Her excuse failed to sway him. “The fine is twenty pounds per month, Mistress.”
“I’ve not the money, and I cannot ask my brother to suffer such a penalty for my sake.” Bess rolled her lips between her teeth and swallowed her pride. “I shall attend tomorrow. You have my vow upon it.”
“I pray so, Widow Ellyott. I do not wish you ill. I simply desire you to comply,” he said. “For I know not if your loyalty lies with the Crown or with those who would continue to rebel against it. Master Topcliffe has turned his attention to us, madam, in this humble corner of the realm.”
The name of Richard Topcliffe froze her blood. He was the queen’s hound and torturer, and she had heard stories of the cruelties he had carried out upon captured priests in his attempts to unearth their treason. Mayhap the rumors about the vagrant being a Jesuit were not rumors, after all.
“Indeed. Topcliffe,” repeated the churchwarden. “I cannot protect any within this parish who might cause trouble for our good queen. ’Twould be too dangerous for all of us.”
“You have no need to doubt my loyalty to Queen Elizabeth.” But Bess now saw that her family’s cordial treatment of the Langhams had cast suspicion upon them. Despite Fulke’s prior actions, which had once secured their allegiance as certainly as a wax seal upon parchment.
Fulke was gone now though, and there would be no more benevolence from the man who presently swept through the doorway and out onto the street, leaving a cold wind in his wake.
* * *
“Have you food in this house, Kit?” asked Gibb, the rumble of his stomach clear across the span of the first-floor hall where they both stood. “I am missing dinner.”
“There might be cheese in the buttery.” Kit stared out the window of the narrow house he rented, out across the square upon which it stood. The churchwarden, his dark robe swinging, strode across the cobbles and passed the market cross. He must be freshly returned from the Croftons’ property. Kit wondered if Wat would reward the churchwarden with any of the goods his men were taking pains to tally.
The butcher gave the churchwarden a wide berth as they crossed paths.
“Only cheese?” complained Gibb.
“A bit of stale bread perhaps.”
His cousin sighed loudly.
From the window, Kit could also see the Stamfords’ shop, bustling with customers inspecting a new supply of kersey. How had a piece of violet ribbon, which Bess Ellyott had seen inside the Stamfords’ shop and Kit had noticed as well, come to be in Rodge Anwicke’s possession? By means fair or foul?
“When are you to engage a proper servant, Kit? ’Tis not as though you cannot afford one. Or two. You cannot live here respectably by begging to use the neighbor’s servant girl when you finally realize that your bedding needs to be aired or your clothes laundered.” Kit looked over his shoulder as his cousin ran a finger across the wainscot at his back and held up the blackened tip of his glove. “Or the dust needs to be removed.”
“Ask your father to send me one of your servants, if you are so worried about my respectability.”
“I think I shall. I would like to see you have to thank him.” Gibb searched for somewhere to wipe his glove. “Can we not at least venture over to the Cross Keys for a meal and some beer?”
Kit resumed observing the square, the shadows deepening in the alleys as the sun set. “Marcye has her eye on me again. A visit so soon after the one I made yesterday might encourage her.”
“So I am to starve.” He groaned.
Gibb must have decided to sit, for the room’s stool creaked as it took on weight. Next came the twang of Gibb picking the strings of Kit’s gittern. “You should teach me how to play this one day.”
Kit turned and plucked the instrument from his cousin’s hands. “I’ve not the time and you’ve not the talent.”
“Unfair, Kit. Most unfair.”
Gently, Kit laid the gittern within its leather case. The lacquer finish protecting its pine and maple wood reflected the light in shades of gold and ivory. It had been the only gift his father had ever given him; he loved it nonetheless.
Kit closed the lid upon the instrument and his thoughts. “You are not here to complain, Gibb.”
“No. I came to tell you there is no fresh news of the vagrant. Mayhap he has fled.”
“Godspeed to the fellow, if he has,” said Kit. “I have fresh news for you though, Gibb. I have found Master Crofton’s hat.”
He explained about the find and about Rodge Anwicke.
“Do you want me to take the boy to the jail?” asked Gibb.
“No, and hear out my reason.” Kit leaned against the ledge formed by the deep inset of the window. “Besides the hat, he’d hidden a sixpence as well. More coin than an unskilled boy like him would see for a full day’s work.”
“Unless that work was criminal. Perhaps he aided Crofton’s killer.”
“Just so,” said Kit. “I would know who paid Rodge. Keep a watch on him, Gibb. See who he speaks with, where he goes. Rodge Anwicke is now aware that I suspect him of involvement in Crofton’s death.”
“And he might run to the man who gave him that money to warn him.” Gibb nodded. “I follow your thoughts.”
“I would know everyone Rodge interacts with, Gibb. Even if he meets with Wat.”
“Wat?”
“He squabbled with Crofton over some property the fellow had owned and that our cousin coveted. He may now be able to obtain it, as Crofton is conveniently out of the way.”
Gibb’s brows lowered. “He would never …”
“Would he not?”
“That was long ago, Kit. An accident,” said Gibb. “You were there. We both were. You know it was an accident. We were all like that then.”
“Not you, Gibb. Besides, you were a child then. What do you recall clearly?” Kit asked. “But I was there. ’Tis the problem. I was there, and I remember quite well.”
* * *
“What mean you to set the constable on my husband to ask about some foolish argument he had with Fulke Crofton?” asked Amice Stamford, standing at Bess’s door.
“Come in out of the rain, Mistress Stamford,” said Bess.
The woman stubbornly proceeded no farther than the passageway. “Well? Have you a response?”
“The constable came to question him?”
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“Yesterday,” said Mistress Stamford. “Do you not deny sending him?”
“I simply told Constable Harwoode your husband and my brother-in-law argued the night before Fulke died,” said Bess.
“So you did encourage this. I knew it.” She wagged a finger at Bess. “I should see you pilloried for slander.”
“What I told the constable is not slander. It is the truth. A truth that is widely known, Mistress Stamford.”
“It is what you implied with such a comment that is slanderous, Mistress Ellyott. I am not fooled by your prevarication,” she replied. “Fulke Crofton sinned by taking his own life because of guilt. Guilt over his false claims that Arthur was lying about the poor quality of your brother-in-law’s wool. We all know what a cheat was Master Crofton.”
Bess’s cheeks warmed. “I did not mean to cause you distress.”
“Did you not? You are all alike, Marshalls and Croftons. You enjoy causing trouble.” Amice Stamford lifted her chin to peer down the length of her nose. “Do not seek to buy cloth from our shop again, Mistress Ellyott. You are not welcome.”
“I—”
“And if you truly sought to identify the cause of your brother-in-law’s upset, you would have the constable speak to his cousin. But I suppose he would not dare do so.”
“Do you mean Sir Walter Howe?”
“Know you not about their great quarrel? You, who seem to possess knowledge of every spat in town?” Amice Stamford’s mouth set in smug lines. “Arthur witnessed a fearsome argument between Master Crofton and Sir Walter. He told me your brother-in-law shouted that he would be dead before he would allow Sir Walter to get his hands on his land. Clearly, his mind was disordered to be so bold as to say such words to the lord of Highcombe.”
Bess blinked at her like a mindless fool.
“What say you now, Mistress Ellyott?”
Jesu.
* * *
Dorothie’s servant, Lucy, showed Bess into the hall. The room’s contents had been stacked in ordered piles, ready for removal, carpets taken up and wound into rolls, tables moved, and tapestries stripped from the walls. The house felt already lifeless, as lifeless as Bess’s London home the day Joan and she had departed, when she had made her tour of every room to bid them and all her happy memories farewell.
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