At the house, the upstairs curtains twitched into place, Margery having grown bored with watching two people simply talk.
“If not for the fortunate discovery of Fulke’s hat, which Rodge had kept, and Maud’s watchful eyes, we would know none of this,” said Bess. And Bennett Langham would still be accused and on his way to the Fisherton jail until a trial at the next quarter sessions. “I must apologize for wondering if Sir Walter was responsible, Constable.”
“He stood to gain from your brother-in-law’s death. Your belief was well reasoned,” he said. “And it is your keen mind that came to comprehend the truth about Roland Fenn.”
She was blushing again and had to look away. The neighbor’s servant girl ceased singing her love song. In the courtyard, the chickens clucked and pecked while the cockerel strutted, and Joan came through the rear door to toss out a bucket of dirty water. Quail limped through the door behind her and barked at the chickens. Joan attempted to shoo him back into the house.
“Unfortunately, I did not comprehend in time to save Rodge,” she said.
That morning, Goodwife Anwicke had gathered Maud into her arms with desperate eagerness. She may have cuffed and cursed Rodge, but the death of a child, no matter how difficult he’d been, was a pain most deep. As Bess so well understood.
“Do not blame yourself. You could not know that Fenn had learned we suspected Master Crofton had been killed.”
“I should have known, because he likely learned of our suspicion from me. ’Tis possible Roland overheard me speaking with Dorothie about the matter. I was uncareful,” she said. “But after he murdered Rodge out of fear the boy would betray him, how did he get away from the ruins without being seen?” Had he been aware of the cellar hidden beneath the plague house?
“He hid among the men who’d come in response to your cries, Mistress,” he said. “In all of the confusion, he managed to appear to be just another townsman participating in the hue and cry. He was among the first to depart in search of the killer, slinking off with a group of other searchers.”
“I was too distraught and weak after the attack to notice all who stood around,” she said. How Roland must have laughed at the irony of joining the search.
“However, he then grew concerned that Rodge was not the only Anwicke to fear,” said the constable. “Despite the common belief that Maud was a mute, he wanted to ensure she was frightened and would never identify him.”
“So he went to their cottage, and Maud went into hiding.” Bess exhaled. “How thankful I am he did not kill her, too.”
The constable had been watching Quail’s antics. Joan, at last, succeeded in her efforts to control the dog and return him to the house. “With Fenn’s confession, I rest assured that our vagrant was not a murderer.”
“‘Was’? Has he withdrawn from the area?”
He was studying her. Did he notice the tensing of her muscles? “Tell me you do not already know the answer to your question.”
Her heart fluttered. But she could answer true. “I do not know the answer, sir.”
His gaze, shaded by the brim of his hat yet still piercing in its intensity, swept over her face. “I am glad to hear so.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bess noticed Joan approaching.
“Constable Harwoode,” she said, curtsying. “A messenger has come to say the stewards require your attendance.”
He stood. “It seems I must bid you farewell, Mistress Ellyott.”
Bess rose as well. “But your arm. I must see to your wound.”
“Alas, my duty calls. Yet I feel confident we shall encounter each other again. Hopefully in more pleasing circumstances.”
Taking her fingers in his, he bowed over her hand far longer than mere politeness required. Then he turned to leave. Joan lifted an eyebrow and followed to see him out.
Within moments, Margery dashed into the courtyard, startling Humphrey.
She raced across the gravel and flung herself down upon the bench. “I thought he would never leave.”
Bess retook her seat. “The constable had much to tell.”
“As do I.” She eyed Humphrey and contented herself that he could not overhear. “I have just now received a message from Bennett. Their visitor has departed and goes north. His accommodations will be sealed shut.”
Bess was glad her niece had thought to whisper. “Good news.”
She could not fathom how the Langhams might block the entrance to the plague house cellar without being detected. A problem for them to manage though.
“But Bennett leaves in a few short hours. He returns to Bristol.”
“I am sorry, Margery,” said Bess. “However, it is best he do so. He is not safe here. You are not safe with him here. For now, at least.”
“I fear I cannot live without him,” she sobbed.
Bess gathered her niece in her arms. “Most certainly you can. If I can eat and sleep and breathe every day without Martin, you can live without Bennett.”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to discredit your loss.”
“I understand. I do,” she said. “Trust me, though, that the pain of separation shall lessen with time.”
“What if he never returns? There may be many pretty women in Bristol, women more interesting and clever than I. What if he finds another?”
“Then you shall find another as well,” said Bess softly, the feel of Kit Harwoode’s fingers rising unbidden in her mind. “And you will be ready to live again.”
* * *
“Forsooth, Bess, how good it is to see you,” said Robert, smiling down at her from the saddle. “The roads were foul from the rains. I meant to be here yesterday instead of near sunset this night.”
“You have arrived safe and sound. ’Tis all I care about,” Bess replied, happy to see him. Three days had passed since Fulke’s murder had been resolved, a period of time for much needed routine to resume in their household. “How fares Mistress Tanner? Are there plans for you to wed?”
“None yet, but I hope soon.”
Humphrey, the strength of his frown deepening the wrinkles of his face, held his master’s horse steady while Robert dismounted. “Humphrey, why so dour? Are you not pleased to see me as my good sister is?”
He slid Bess a sideways glance. “I am most glad you are returned, Master,” he said, and set to removing the leather sumpters tied behind the horse’s saddle.
Bess hastened to hug her brother close, her various scrapes and strains aching but a trifle. He smelled of the road and long miles but was solid and warm and unharmed. Unlike Constable Harwoode and Dorothie. Or Margery’s heart.
“God’s truth, sister! I did not know I would be missed so,” he replied, laughing. He freed himself from her embrace. “But where is Quail? My own dog does not come to greet me? And Dorothie and Margery? I have gifts for you all.”
He strode across the courtyard to retrieve one of the sumpters as Humphrey led the horse into the stable.
“Quail has a slight injury. Do not fret! ’Tis minor, and he recovers apace,” answered Bess. “As for Dorothie and Margery, they are at their house. Once Humphrey is finished with your horse, I will have him fetch them here to greet you.”
“How is it they remain at their house?” he asked, bringing over the bulging leather pack.
“That will require some explanation,” Bess answered with a smile. “Your sumpter looks fit to burst. Did you bring tobacco for our neighbor, as you promised him?”
“I did indeed. And I have brought the third book of The Faerie Queene for Margery, as also promised.”
“She will be most pleased to see you. She always welcomes your gifts.”
“Faint comfort for the loss of her stepfather.”
“You know they were not ever close.” Bess took his elbow and led him toward the house. “So she is well, aside from the damage caused by a broken heart. Bennett Langham left for Bristol today.”
“Ah. For the best, though, I would wager,” he said. “I also have a length of lac
e for Dorothie. And I have brought nutmeg and ginger for you, Bess, for your physic.”
“I will have to fight Joan for those!”
He sobered. “I delivered the letter you helped Joan write to her friend, but I did not receive an answer before I left. However, I did receive a note for you. From that fellow you once mentioned. That Laurence.”
The mention of his name set a chill upon her skin. So he had found a way to contact her. Bess took the note and folded it into her pocket.
“You do not read it now?”
“Any message from him can wait.” The time was coming when she’d need to return to London. She could not run forever from what must be done. Later, though, to think upon that. Later. “It is time to hear of your travels.”
He patted the hand she had placed upon his arm. Together, they crossed the threshold and turned into the hall, where Joan had lit a fire, which blazed upon the hearth. Quail, tail wagging, waited just inside the doorway. Robert crouched to ruffle the dog’s ears, receiving a lick upon the face as reward.
“It is most pleasant to be home,” Robert said, as she helped him remove his cloak. With Quail following him, Robert took his usual chair by the fireplace, a relieved groan escaping from his lips. “But, Bess, what have you been about while I was gone? Has your young patient recovered from her burn? And you must explain how it can be that Dorothie and Margery have not been forced to leave their home yet.”
Bess lowered herself onto the settle and smiled at him. Where to begin?
“Ah, Robin, I have quite a tale to tell.”
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1580, the first Jesuits arrived in England to preach to the few remaining Catholic faithful and rebuild the church. Elizabeth, already surrounded by numerous threats to her rule, had reason to question their intentions. Ten years earlier, the pope had called for his followers to repudiate the Protestant queen’s claim to the throne. Furthermore, Elizabeth’s most likely heir—Mary, Queen of Scots—was Catholic. A few power-hungry Catholics, emboldened by the Jesuits’ arrival, tried to carry out the first of several failed assassination attempts. Increasingly punitive measures were put in place to suppress Catholicism in England, though the vast majority of Catholics wished only to practice their faith, not overthrow the queen. By 1593, the year of Searcher of the Dead, if nonconforming recusants missed church services, they could be heavily fined and lose their estates. Recusants were not allowed to travel five miles beyond their homes. And to help a Jesuit was to be convicted of treason. Despite this, people hid priests in secret rooms and aided their travels. A network of spies and the use of torture, however, eventually uncovered many of the priests and their supporters. During Elizabeth’s reign, nearly two hundred of them were put to death.
In Searcher of the Dead, Kit Harwoode is the reluctant local constable serving a system very unlike modern law enforcement. In sixteenth-century England, there was no organized police force, and the role of constable was often considered a burden by the prominent citizens who were expected to take turns filling the unpaid position. When it came to catching criminals, townspeople had almost as much responsibility as the constables did. Townsfolk were expected to name suspects and help apprehend them (fines could be levied against them if suspects managed to evade capture) as well as serve as jurors. Once suspects were apprehended, trials often took place without lawyers, and defense witnesses were rarely called, as it was presumed they could not be trusted to be honest. Guilt or innocence might be decided by a person’s reputation rather than the strength of any evidence. If the accused was found guilty, punishments were intentionally severe in an attempt to deter crime. Even trivial offenses carried stiff penalties. Gossips could be put in the stocks. Minor thieves lost their ears. Many offenses were punished by hanging. It was a world that could be harsh, indeed.
A note on the town waites or waits. From the Middle Ages until 1835, most British towns employed a group of musicians. Initially the waits accompanied the town’s watchmen on their patrols, but eventually their job grew to include providing music for ceremonial events. Some were so talented that they were in demand for weddings and official dinners. A government order in 1835 abolished the town waits, but many groups live on, to entertain and educate.
Lastly, the town and characters are fictional. Except for Richard Topcliffe. He was very real.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Herriman
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-538-4
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-539-1
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-540-7
Cover design by Matthew Kalamidas/StoneHouse Creative
Book design by Jennifer Canzone
Printed in the United States.
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First edition: March 2018
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