Searcher of the Dead

by Nancy Herriman

  The world spun more rapidly, and she clutched at the wall behind her.

  “Mistress!” The constable grabbed Bess to keep her from falling. “You should sit.”

  “Here? In the filth and muck of this passageway?” she asked, finding strength to jest. She looked into his concerned eyes. “I am better. ’Twas but a passing dizziness.”

  “You are safe from Topcliffe now. He has gone to London. A priest was found hiding in Oxford and has been brought to the Tower for Master Topcliffe’s attention.” Satisfied she’d not collapse, the constable leaned against the wall at Bess’s side. “You will be pleased to learn that neither he nor his men uncovered anything treasonous at Langham Hall.”

  “No priest holes? No vagrant who might be a Jesuit?”

  “No, Mistress,” he answered simply.

  Thanked be God. Perhaps the danger diminished. “With Master Topcliffe’s departure, hopefully, the churchwarden and everyone in town can be likewise convinced of their innocence.”

  “You have lived here long enough to guess how the townspeople might respond.”

  They might never be convinced. “But the Langhams shall be allowed to go free.”

  “Mistress Langham has already been released. Gibb takes her to her home as we speak,” he said. He scanned the people who walked through the square. “We should not be resting here, where the town can gape at us, then gossip later. You need to tend your injury.” He nodded at her wrist.

  “Why cheat them of yet another opportunity to chatter about me?” For they did gape—the fellow cradling an aching jaw who was heading for the barber’s on the corner, the carpenter’s ever-curious apprentices, the tavern keeper’s daughter, who stared at Bess and Kit Harwoode with a frown marring her pretty face, to name a few. Even the cur that had paused to make water against the wall of the adjacent glover’s shop cast a glance in their direction before loping off. “Besides, I need a few more moments to calm the tumbling in my head.”

  For the first time in days, the sun broke through the clouds. It slanted through the narrow gap between buildings to warm her face. The air, though carrying an unhealthy whiff of sourness from the gutter behind the butcher’s, smelled far sweeter than the air within the churchwarden’s study. She would never be able to look upon Master Enderby again without recoiling.

  “I cannot fathom who told the churchwarden that I provide aid to the Langhams,” she said.

  “Someone who has decided you are an enemy,” he said. “Perchance the same person who paid Rodge Anwicke in ribbon to spy upon them.”

  She looked over at him. “You have learned this?”

  “From the cordwainer’s son, who was once Rodge’s mate,” he said. “If you are recovered enough, we should get you home.”

  Constable Harwoode took her arm again and encouraged her to start walking. When Bess perceived that the wife of the tailor was leaning through an upper-floor window to eavesdrop upon them, she comprehended his reasons for getting her to move.

  “Poor Rodge. Caught up in schemes we do not yet comprehend,” she said, her ankle, her wrist, her shoulder … so many parts of her body throbbing. “Would the same person who gave him that ribbon have killed him though?”

  “Mistress, I do not know,” he said. “And I do not like that I do not know.”

  “I should tell you that your cousin misled us, Constable Harwoode. The miller says that Sir Walter never came to the mill the night Rodge died. Has he admitted as much to you?”

  “You are questioning people?” he asked, his brows lowering. “Do you always court trouble?”

  “Not always,” she replied. “However, you did not answer.”

  “Wat claimed he went but turned back for home after determining his help was not needed,” he said. “However, I did not meet him upon the road, and I should have …”

  A man upon horseback spurred the animal through the square, weaving his way between the dairyman’s wagon and a cart laden with supplies for the painter working on a house across the way. He nearly trampled a young child playing outside upon the cobbles, causing the girl’s mother to shout at him, and reined in the animal before the constable’s house.

  “It appears you have a visitor at your house, Constable Harwoode.”

  “Indeed so,” said the constable. “’Tis Gibb.”

  The constable increased his pace, forcing Bess to hobble after him.

  Gibb Harwoode tipped his cap at Bess. “Mistress Ellyott, ’tis good to see you well,” he said. “I bring news of Mistress Langham, Kit. She collapsed when we arrived at her house.”

  “How poorly is she?” asked Bess.

  “I am no physician, Mistress,” he said apologetically. “But she is not well. I came looking for you, Kit, because her poor health concerned me, and I knew not what to do.”

  “Is Bennett Langham with her?” asked the constable.

  “He has not yet been allowed to leave the churchwarden’s house.”

  “How does he fare? Do you know his condition?” Bess asked.

  Master Harwoode shook his head. “Although his mother thinks Master Topcliffe spent most of his energies upon her.”

  Nausea rose. “I would go to her. Let me fetch my satchel from my home.” She would need her mixture of black soap and honey for any bruising. If Mistress Langham required a plaster for broken bones—which Bess prayed would not be required—she would have to make a fresh supply.

  “It is unwise to go to Langham Hall, Mistress,” said the constable. “Even if it were safe, you are in no condition to travel there.”

  “Bring Mistress Langham to my house, then, if it is so unwise for me to go to her.”

  “Mistress Ellyott, you risk your standing in this town by tending to a woman interrogated by Topcliffe.”

  “My standing is already damaged by my own summons to that man,” she said. “And, as you have so correctly pointed out, no one else shall be willing to tend to Mistress Langham after the interrogation she and her son have received. You know what I say is true.”

  He studied her. “I see you are determined.”

  “That I am.”

  “Then I shall bring her to your house,” he said. “And I shall remain behind once she has been delivered. I do not want anyone claiming you and she met in secret to conspire against the queen.”

  “Many thanks, Constable Harwoode.”

  He inclined his head, his right eyebrow curving upward. “You do sore test me, Mistress.”

  “Being obstinate is a skill of mine. In addition to courting trouble,” she said. “Ask my brother if you do not believe me.”

  The curve of his eyebrow was joined by a faint smile. “I have no need to ask your brother, Mistress Ellyott.”

  * * *

  Margery and Bess stood at the lesser parlor’s street-facing window, awaiting Mistress Langham’s arrival. Margery gripped Bess’s hand with a dangerous and alarming force. She must love Bennett deeply. A man she’d come to know well only at that summer’s revels, when long days filled with laughter and the headiness of dancing and music warmed hearts. Robert had consoled Dorothie by claiming her daughter’s affection was a passing fancy, one that would fade along with the summer sunshine. That Bennett would be forgotten when he returned to his uncle’s merchant business in Bristol.

  If only Robert had been right.

  “Was it terrible, Aunt Bess, being with that man?” asked Margery.

  “I shall not lie,” said Bess. “Richard Topcliffe is a cruel creature. I pray he did not greatly hurt Mistress Langham, and that she fainted merely from weariness.”

  A tremor pulsed through Margery’s fingers, and Bess pressed a kiss upon her niece’s head.

  “There!” cried Margery, pointing toward the road. “She has arrived.”

  An open cart pulled by a donkey trundled in their direction. The constable was driving, and Mistress Langham was tightly bundled in the back, her face obscured by the hood she had drawn close. She appeared to be awake, but she slumped against Gibb Harwood
e, who encircled her shoulders with a protective arm.

  Margery dashed from the house to greet them. Across the way, their neighbor—who seemed ever more occupied with peeking through her casement window than tending to the needs of her household—squinted to assess the identity of their cloaked visitor. The guessing would not be difficult.

  Joan had come from the kitchen. “By God’s mercy,” she breathed. “Have they killed her?”

  “No, Joan. She is yet alive,” Bess said. “Place a thin mattress upon the settle before the fire. I would make our guest as comfortable as possible.”

  Bess went to the back of the cart to help Mistress Langham descend, and the constable hopped down to assist. The woman looked up at Bess. Her eyes, cast into shadow by her overhanging hood, were dark with pain and exhaustion. Dried blood caked her lips, and a bruise showed on her left cheek. Blood from her mouth had dripped upon her crumpled ruff, staining it brown. But resolve was etched upon her features. Topcliffe had not defeated her.

  “Come, madam.” Bess offered the woman her good hand.

  “My thanks, Mistress,” she said, her voice a strained whisper.

  Gibb Harwoode helped her inch forward to the edge of the cart, and she pinched her eyes shut with the effort. She could not move her right leg without wincing. Beneath Mistress Langham’s trailing skirts, Bess noticed hastily wrapped strips of cloth binding the lower part of her limb.

  “How does Bennett fare?” asked Margery, leaning over the wobbly side of the cart as though she might find the news she sought hiding there.

  “Gibb here tells me he remains under the churchwarden’s care,” said Constable Harwoode, gently taking Mistress Langham’s arm to support her weight. “Lean upon me, madam.”

  “Is her leg broken?” Bess asked him, though Mistress Langham could answer her question well enough. ’Twas ever the habit of a healer to forget that the patient had ears and tongue.

  “It would feel so, Mistress Ellyott,” she said, groaning as the two men freed her from the cart and the shifting of her weight swung her injured limb. “But it is not. A bad strain I caused in my haste to depart good Master Enderby’s house. I stumbled upon the stairs and twisted it.”

  “You do not seem a clumsy sort, Mistress Langham,” observed Bess.

  A taut smile was her response.

  “Margery, I need you to make a plaster of flour and eggs to mend Mistress Langham’s bones, if there is a chance she has sustained a break,” said Bess. “And fetch the physic I use for bruises.”

  Margery looked longingly down the lane that would take her toward the center of town. “But—”

  “I believe Bennett is well, Mistress Margery,” assured Mistress Langham, caring for another despite her own miseries. “Fret not.”

  “Margery, prithee do as I ask,” said Bess, sending her niece off.

  “If I am not required here, Kit, I will go to Master Enderby’s to inquire after Master Langham,” said Gibb Harwoode.

  The constable nodded and steadied Mistress Langham as she tried to walk. “I could carry you, madam.”

  “You would not wish to be seen offering such kindnesses to a Langham, Constable, so I shall walk as best I can,” she replied, her gaze meeting Bess’s. “Further, I would not have Mistress Ellyott’s neighbor, who spies upon us, gossiping that I am at death’s door.”

  Bess scowled at the neighbor in question, who hastily withdrew from her window. “Come, Mistress Langham, we will see what we can do to mend you.”

  Joan held the door open while they made their way inside the house. A limping Bess assisting a woman more severely hurt. What a piteous sight.

  “Bring her in here if you will, Constable,” said Bess as she ducked into the hall. She gestured toward the settle, over-draped with a thin mattress pulled from the truckle bed Robert stored in an unused bedchamber. “And Joan, fetch a cloth and water to wipe the blood from Mistress Langham’s face.”

  With the constable’s help, Mistress Langham lowered herself onto the settle, holding her breath to stop from crying out. The hood had fallen away, off her head, and Bess could better see the bruising upon her skin. What a cruel man. To beat a woman. Even if she was a secret Catholic.

  Constable Harwoode stood aside. Gingerly, Bess helped Mistress Langham rest her legs upon the mattress.

  Her eyes widened. “What has happened to you?” she asked, staring at Bess’s wrist.

  “I received some of Master Topcliffe’s attentions myself. ’Tis naught more than a deep bruise. I will recover.”

  “He did this because of your association with us,” Mistress Langham said.

  Bess glanced over at the constable, who watched them both closely. “Do not fret for me.”

  Margery returned with the physic and fresh bandaging and set them upon the stool hard by the fireplace. “Might I help remove the old bandages, Aunt Bess?”

  “You may. With care.”

  Bess stepped aside as her niece slowly undid the strips that had been clumsily wound around Mistress Langham’s lower limb.

  “You have suffered a great deal of late, Mistress Ellyott. To be tormented by Master Topliffe after having been attacked at the ruins along with that poor boy,” said Mistress Langham, as Joan returned with a cloth and a bowl of water. The woman dismissed Joan’s attempts to clean her face, taking the dampened square of linen to tend to her own bloodied mouth. “I confess I always pitied that lad and the rest of his family.”

  How bold of her to mention Rodge. Bess slid a glance in Kit Harwoode’s direction to assess his reaction. Which she could not read.

  “I pitied the lad even when my groom caught him creeping around the grounds,” she continued.

  Margery frowned over her comment and tugged too hard on the final length of bandaging, jostling Mistress Langham’s ankle and making the woman wince.

  “When was this?” asked Bess.

  Mistress Langham gave her a look that suggested Bess already knew the answer. “Before my husband was sent to the Fleet.”

  Margery flushed. “My stepfather—”

  “Only did what countless others thought to do but did not act upon quickly enough,” interrupted Mistress Langham, handing the wet cloth, stained with her dried blood, back to Bess.

  “But it was wrong,” said Margery.

  “Margery, rather than debate the merits of your stepfather’s actions, let us first attend to healing Mistress Langham,” said Bess sternly.

  Margery quieted.

  Mistress Langham’s injured limb appeared straight and true, if swollen. Bess probed her ankle and lower leg, feeling for the grinding of bone upon bone that would indicate a break. She felt none. “Can you move your ankle at all, madam?”

  “Must I?” she asked, forcing a smile. Gamely, she turned her foot from side to side.

  “Are you certain it was Fulke Crofton who paid Rodge Anwicke, Mistress Langham?” asked the constable, whom Bess could not chasten into silence. He buffed the backs of his fingers against his beard. His habit, Bess had come to realize, when he was troubled by his thoughts.

  “The boy admitted he had come from the Croftons’.”

  Bess frowned. The link between Fulke and Rodge was now proved.

  “Think you that my limb is broken?” asked Mistress Langham, misunderstanding the scowl upon Bess’s face.

  “Not at all.” Bess drew the woman’s skirts back down over her legs. “No break.”

  “I am relieved, then,” she replied. She relaxed against the cushions propping her shoulders. “Of course, that was not the only time the Anwicke boy was discovered on our property. About a week ago, Bennett caught him again.”

  The payment of the purple ribbon, thought Bess. She glanced at the constable, who appeared to be thinking the same.

  Margery reached for the woman’s hand. “Prithee, forgive my family.”

  Mistress Langham smiled gently. “I do not blame you, Margery.”

  Bess straightened. “You will need to drink comfrey juice to mend, madam. E
ven though your leg is not broken, you are badly injured. Twice per day,” she said. “Margery, spread some of the black soap mixture upon brown paper to wrap about her lower limb.”

  The girl grabbed up the physic and paper and rushed to Bess’s side, allowing her aunt scant time to step away. Mistress Langham was in good care.

  Bess went to join the constable, who had gone to stand across the room. “We have discovered the answer to a question.”

  “Aye.” His gaze was upon Margery, murmuring soothingly as she bound Mistress Langham’s leg. “We have learned who paid Rodge.”

  “But not who killed him.”

  He looked down at Bess. “Have we not?”

  Before she could reply, a knock sounded upon the door, and Joan went to answer it.

  Margery finished wrapping Mistress Langham’s leg in fresh bandaging just as Bennett strode into the hall. “Bennett, you are freed!” she cried.

  “Are you hurt?” asked his mother.

  Lowering the hood of his cloak, damp from the rain that had begun again, he offered Margery a smile. “My trials are nothing. I am well.”

  He strode to Mistress Langham’s side, the cloak he wore fluttering as he moved.

  His red-silk-lined cloak.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Constable Harwoode,” said Bess. “I beg you.”

  Though what did she beg him to do? Not question the man whom the cordwainer’s wife had possibly seen riding along the highway in great haste the night Rodge was murdered? The man who had caught the lad spying upon his family again?

  He ignored her pleas and strode over to confront Bennett.

  “Master Langham, shortly after Rodge Anwicke was killed and this woman attacked,” the constable pointed at Bess, “a man in a red-lined cloak was seen riding along the highway. Was it you?”

  His mother elbowed herself upright. “What do you mean by this, Constable?”

  Margery, ashen, stepped between Bennett and Kit Harwoode. “Leave him be. He would never harm my aunt, and he would never kill someone.” She turned to Bess. “You know that is true. Tell the constable that Bennett is decent and honest.”

  “Margery, it is best you do not interfere,” said Bess, indicating that her niece should join her. “Come, now.”