“I know. I look like her.”
“I’m glad you came to me. I agree that it would be best if Roger awaited burial here. His family will want to see him and to see to him, of course.”
“Gareth will be discreet, I promise you,” Gwen said. “His family won’t have any objections to his treatment, though—” Gwen found herself pausing again.
Radulfus canted his head, waiting for her to continue
“Roger’s neck is bruised,” Gwen said. “Strangling is an ugly way to die, and it isn’t possible to hide it.”
“I will speak to Martin and his wife when they arrive and make sure they understand the severity of Roger’s wounds. Perhaps a few of the brothers could take from them the burden of washing the body for burial.” Radulfus’ gaze was piercing. “It is kind of you to think of Roger’s family. Meanwhile, I will see that a room is set aside for the body.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said.
Radulfus made a motion as if to suggest that the interview was over and that he intended to return to his other duties, but then he hesitated too. “Didn’t you say there were two deaths?”
“The possibility of the first is what brought John Fletcher looking for Gareth this morning—except, all that we’ve found so far is a pool of blood and no body,” Gwen said.
Radulfus studied her. “Your news grows more disturbing by the moment. I am also concerned about your continued use of the word we. Don’t tell me that you have been a party to these events?”
“Not a party so much as an assistant to my husband in his investigation,” Gwen said, and at Radulfus’ continued stare, she added. “I have served Prince Hywel in that capacity for several years, alongside Gareth, of course.”
Radulfus blinked, but he didn’t object further, merely straightened his shoulders. “Prayers will be said for these poor souls—and those who sent them to an early grave—beginning immediately.”
Gwen would have expected no less, and she was glad that Radulfus wasn’t openly objecting to her participation, for now anyway. “Thank you, Father.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the string of rosary beads she’d found. “Do you recognize these as belonging to one of your people?”
Radulfus took the rosary in both hands and inspected it before glancing up at Gwen. “We, as an order, decry individual possessions, but that doesn’t extend to rosaries, and every monk possesses one. This is roughly made, which I would expect from a monk’s rosary. Though I don’t recognize it specifically, I wouldn’t deny that it could belong to a member of my order. Where did you find it?”
“We discovered it in the alley where the pool of blood was found,” Gwen said. “As you can see from the smoothness of the ends, if the victim lost it as he was running, it wasn’t because it broke but rather because it became untied. It could also have been there for some time and wouldn’t necessarily have belonged to the victim.”
“Did you clean the beads before you put them in your purse?” Abbot Radulfus asked.
“Not beyond picking a few leaf scraps from between them,” Gwen said, somewhat warily. “Why?”
“If the rosary had lain in the alley for some time, as you suggest, the wood and leather would have become stained, don’t you think?” Radulfus gestured to Gwen herself. “You wear a gold cross on a chain. How long could it have lain in the street before dirt would have adhered to it?”
“Not long. I see now that what you said is true: you are no stranger to murder.”
Radulfus gave a slight laugh. “It isn’t murder I know, but rosaries.”
That prompted a smile from Gwen. “Perhaps you can help me with this too.” She reached again into her purse and pulled out a sketch of Conall that Gareth had made on the guidance of the innkeeper. Gwen was inordinately proud of Gareth for his artistry, which was among the many skills he’d developed over the years on the way to bettering himself, such that he’d risen from a man-at-arms to become the captain of Prince Hywel’s guard. They wouldn’t know if the sketch was a good likeness, however, until they found Conall.
“Would it be possible for me to inquire among the brothers, guests, and lay workers if they’ve seen this man? He’s Irish, going by the name of Conall. Finding him might go a long way in helping us discover the reason for Roger Carter’s death.”
“He is the murderer?” Radulfus studied the image.
“Roger Carter’s body was found in a room let to Conall. Although the image can’t show it, he had fiery red hair, white skin, and freckles.”
Radulfus grunted and handed the picture back to Gwen. “I do not know him, nor have I seen him, but if he has been staying in Shrewsbury itself, likely he would have attended mass at one of the town churches.”
Gwen accepted that assessment without comment even though she personally thought it optimistic of Radulfus to think the man would have gone to any church at all. It wasn’t her place to express her disbelief to an abbot, however, so she simply nodded and put the sketch away.
“I will instruct my charges to answer your questions, and I will find someone to accompany you. Brother Julian, I think,” Radulfus said, “and I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of what you find.”
“Of course, Father,” Gwen said, “but I don’t want to take anyone away from his duties.”
“I insist,” Radulfus said. “Sadly, I have loaned our one Welsh brother, with whom you could have conversed and who would have made an excellent translator, to Ludlow, to tend to the Lacy heir who is very ill.”
“Perhaps before too long it won’t matter,” Gwen said, giving way, though she wondered if the real reason Radulfus wanted someone to accompany her was because he didn’t want a woman speaking to his monks without supervision. “Gareth speaks English better than I do, and I’m hoping that with a few more days here, my speaking and comprehension will be greatly improved.”
“You already speak English very well,” Radulfus said.
Gwen scoffed under her breath as she walked with the abbot out of the nave and into the afternoon sun in the courtyard. “Far be it from me to accuse an abbot of speaking untruths.”
Radulfus’ footsteps faltered yet again, but this time when he turned to her, he was laughing.
Chapter Eight
Gareth
Telling a family that they’d lost a loved one was never easy, but today it was made far worse by the twitching and fidgeting that was going on in the body of John Fletcher as he walked beside Gareth towards the cartwright’s yard.
Finally, when they were one street away, Gareth stopped and turned to the younger man. “Talk to me.”
John pulled up. “What?”
“Don’t try to pretend with me,” Gareth said. “We’ve been through too much together in our short acquaintance for me not to realize when you are troubled by something, and I’m thinking it’s more than finding Roger Carter dead—difficult as that must be for you.”
John took in a deep breath. “It’s my sister. I fear what the shock of Roger’s death could do to her, coming hard on the heels of the loss of Adeline.”
As explanations went, it was plausible, but Gareth didn’t think that was all that was bothering John. Gareth studied John’s face and was about to let him off the hook when John sighed and said, “I lied to you before.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “About what?”
“About how I felt about Adeline,” John said.
“Ah,” Gareth said. “You did love her.”
“I loved her my whole life,” John said. “I begged my father to make an offer to her father for me, but he refused, thinking her beneath me. I didn’t have the courage to defy him, and then Tom Weaver gave her to Roger.”
“Did Adeline love you? Were you lying about that?”
John looked away. “No, or if she did love me, it was only as the brother of her friend. But she would have chosen me over Roger.”
“And by doing so condemned you to a loveless marriage,” Gareth said. “It would have been the same kind of marriage Roger would have
had. Death spared Adeline that fate, as her death spared Roger, though I suspect he cared about love less than you. Your father may have forbidden the marriage for the wrong reasons, to your mind, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have your best interests at heart.”
John nodded, still looking away.
Gareth stepped closer and gentled his voice. “Now Roger is dead, and Adeline is dead. We found her killer, and we will find Roger’s. Take comfort in your duty. We need to speak to Roger’s family before the rumor of his death reaches them.”
John nodded jerkily and continued walking. The cartwright’s home was in the center of Shrewsbury, south of the castle and equidistant between the inn where Roger’s body was found and the alley where the pool of blood had by now soaked into the earth. Gareth gave that coincidence a moment’s thought and then dismissed it as inconclusive. Even for such a large town as Shrewsbury, no place could be more than a quarter of an hour’s walk from anywhere else and still be within the city walls.
The cartwright’s yard sat on the corner of a block on an expanse of level ground at the base of the hill upon which the castle perched. A two-story house, which was large enough to contain at least two rooms on the lower floor and possibly more than one on the upper, fronted the street. The yard was accessed by a driveway that ran between the house and the neighboring shop. At night, a wide gate would block it, but as it was during business hours, the gate was fully open.
For a business inside the town, the lot was large. But as had been made clear to Gareth, Roger Carter had been a wealthy man, and he and his brother, Martin, had a thriving business. They needed the space to house the carts and equipment necessary for their work.
“In here.” John led Gareth down the driveway to the back of the house.
The yard consisted of a house to the left, which fronted the street; a small chicken run on the far side of the property; a two horse stable; a large workshop, twice the size of the house, where the actual work was done; and a similarly sized carthouse. The carthouse’s double doors were open, allowing Gareth to peer inside to the rows of carts, big and small, lined up in it.
At their entrance, a man came out of the workshop, which was open on all four sides, giving Gareth a good view of the orange fire of a forge, necessary for crafting the iron rims and fittings for carts. Another man remained in its depths, a dark silhouette against the glow of the flames.
“Hello, John,” the first man said, indicating to Gareth that this was Martin, Roger’s brother. He was, even to Gareth’s eyes, Hywel-handsome, though he looked nothing like Hywel. He had hazel eyes, unruly short brown hair, a narrow nose, and high cheekbones. Gareth would never have guessed that he and Roger were brothers, and Gareth wondered if they shared only one parent. “Jenny has gone to the market.”
As Martin was married to John’s sister, it made sense that he would think John was here to see her, but John made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Now that I’m here, I’m glad she isn’t.”
Martin’s eyes went past John to Gareth and turned curious, but then he returned his gaze to his brother-in-law. “What’s wrong, John?”
John took in a deep breath and seemed about to speak, but then he hesitated again and no words came out. Gareth should have realized that John had never before delivered news of a death to a loved one. He put a hand on John’s shoulder and spoke to Martin. “What John is trying to tell you is that we found the body of your brother, Roger, this morning. I’m sorry, but he is dead.”
“Wha—” Martin’s face paled, and he stuttered as he looked from Gareth to John and back again. “What-what did you say?” His voice, when he managed to speak, had gone high. People weren’t capable of paling on command, which meant Martin’s reaction was genuine. He was shocked by the discovery of his brother’s body.
The man still inside the shop gave up what he was doing and approached, hesitating in the space between light and dark at the edge of the shop. “Sir?”
Martin threw out a hand, but Gareth wasn’t clear on whether Martin meant for this second man to leave or to stay. The man came forward anyway, his brow furrowed. He was John’s age or younger, taller and very well built, with huge arm muscles as befitted one who worked with his hands. He had intelligent brown eyes and brown hair pulled back in a thong at the base of his neck.
Gareth cleared his throat reflexively, since John still wasn’t speaking. “Who are you?”
The man looked Gareth up and down—and then surprised him by answering in fluent Welsh. “Huw, Roger’s and Martin’s apprentice. Who are you?”
“Gareth ap Rhys, of Gwynedd.”
That prompted a widening of the eyes and a quick nod that was almost a bow. “What’s happened?” Huw looked from Gareth to Martin, who was gazing past John as if he didn’t see him.
“Roger is dead,” Gareth said shortly. “Perhaps you could tell me when you last saw him?”
Huw blinked once, pausing with his mouth open as if he was going to speak to Martin, but then turned to Gareth instead. He spread his hands wide as he answered Gareth’s question. “Yesterday evening sometime. He left me to close up.”
John moved closer to Martin and found his voice enough to speak gently, “Martin, do you mind telling us when you last saw Roger?”
“Last night at supper.” Martin spoke almost reflexively, and it was clear his mind was not on his answer. Then the nature and specificity of John’s question seemed to hit him. “Why do you ask me that?”
John bit his lip. “Roger was murdered, Martin.”
Martin’s mouth made the shape as if he was going to say, “What?” again, but no sound came out.
Huw was more expressive, looking away and swearing in his native language. Then he turned back. “How?”
Gareth glanced at John to see if he was going to answer or if Gareth should, but John was in control of the interview now. “He was strangled, down at Rob Horn’s Inn.”
“Strangled.” Martin spoke as if he didn’t know the word’s meaning.
“We found him in one of the rooms,” John said.
Martin’s brow furrowed. “How unlike him. Roger was never one to rent a room by the hour.”
Huw looked at Martin with a puzzled expression on his face. Gareth didn’t think the apprentice understood what Martin was implying: that the reason Roger had been at the inn was to be with a whore. That hadn’t been Gareth’s first, second, or third assumption, and from the quick glance John sent him, it wasn’t where his mind had gone either.
Gareth was quick on the uptake though and asked, “Does Rob rent rooms by the hour?”
“No, not normally, but why else would Roger be in a room at an inn? He lives here. He would have brought any respectable woman here.”
Huw took a step back, finally understanding what Martin had meant. The puzzled expression remained, but it was now accompanied by a half-smile and a head shake. Gareth had never been a merchant’s apprentice, but he’d been a man-at-arms not too long ago. It was the assumption among the lower echelons of any profession that it was they, not their superiors, who best understood the workings of day-to-day life. Huw was discovering, in this case, that he didn’t know as much about his masters as he’d thought.
“We assumed he’d gone to meet someone who was staying at the inn,” Gareth said. “Would you know anything about that?”
Martin’s eyebrows were almost to his hairline as he shook his head. “No. Nothing. He said nothing to me last night.”
“To me either,” Huw said, now speaking in English.
“Do you know this man?” Gareth pulled out one of the sketches he’d made of Conall. “He would have had red hair.”
Martin pursed his lips as he gazed down at the image. Then he looked up at Gareth. “Did you draw this?” At Gareth’s nod, he added, “You’re quite good. We can always use a man like you in our line of work, because a customer likes to see what he’s getting before he buys. My brother and I—”
For a moment there it seemed that Martin might b
e offering Gareth a position, but with his own mention of his brother, Martin broke off as his face went gray again, and he handed the sketch to Huw, who took it without speaking.
“As far as I know, this man hasn’t been to the yard, is that right, Huw?” Martin said.
“Right,” Huw said.
Martin nodded, as if agreement from his apprentice was a given. “But if he has red hair like you say, and he was in Shrewsbury for very long, someone is sure to remember him.” He paused. “I just realized you’re showing his picture to me because you think this man killed Roger.”
Gareth accepted the paper from Huw and pocketed it again. “It is really too early for us to think anything. Again, I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Please give my condolences to Jenny,” John said. “I know that she was fond of Roger, and that he was kind to her. I’ll be by later this evening to see her.”
Martin nodded. “Thank you.” He coughed. “Wh-where is the body?”
“Still in our custody,” John said. “He’s on his way to the abbey right now, and you can contact the brothers there about burial.”
Another nod. “Thank you.” Martin turned away.
Gareth and John did too, striding down the driveway and out into the street. Gareth didn’t say anything for a dozen paces, not wanting to taint John’s first impressions with his own. They headed east, towards the monastery, which John’s watchmen should have reached with the body by now. After two streets, however, John pulled up. “Can I tell you what I’m thinking?”
“I hoped you would,” Gareth said.
“Three things,” John said. “The first is that Martin didn’t say outright that he didn’t recognize Conall—did you notice that?” John didn’t wait for more than a nod from Gareth before continuing. “He said only that Conall hadn’t come around the yard that he knew.”
“Likely, that’s the truth, which is why—if he is, in fact, lying about knowing Conall—he tried to distract me by complementing me on the drawing.” Gareth jerked his chin. “What’s the second thing?”
The Renegade Merchant Page 6