The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  Owen knew little about the groom, but he did know that John did not like to explain himself, so he accepted his odd answer without further question. "Good lad. When you've given me your message, these two louts will show you to the kitchen, where you'll be well rewarded."

  John handed Owen the pouch and the letter. "That pouch is Master Ridley's, may he rest in peace. Mistress Wilton said to read the letter first."

  "Is she well?"

  "Oh, aye, Captain. All is well at the shop. This has naught to do with shop matters."

  "Good. I will look at these. Now off to the kitchen with him, men." Owen, satisfied to hear their polite request that John follow them, turned at once to the letter.

  What he read disturbed him. Arsenic in the remedy. And Cecilia Ridley so vague about what Ridley had been taking. Owen did not like this. Could he have been so wrong about Cecilia Ridley? Or was there someone else in the household who had hated the Master?

  Sweet Heaven, how was he to approach this? "Mistress Ridley, were you poisoning your husband for any particular reason?" Blast. Jehannes would be better at this than Owen.

  Owen read on, about Jasper's disappearance from the minster and the evidence of a struggle. Damn Thoresby. Owen had told him the boy would be in danger.

  "What's amiss?" Cecilia asked.

  Owen started. He had not heard her come down to the hall or approach him. She wore a kerchief to hold back her hair and her sleeves were pushed up.

  "How is your daughter this morning?" Owen asked.

  "Cool. She took a little watered wine, and I've come down to see what Angharad might fix for her." Cecilia sat down by Owen. "I heard voices."

  Owen nodded. "A messenger from York with your husband's

  other baggage--the pack you said was missing, most like. We will look at it later, after you've seen to Anna."

  "Other baggage?" her voice was nervous.

  "Nothing to worry about," Owen lied.

  "The messenger has gone out to the kitchen?"

  "Aye. Shall I go out and speak with the cook about some broth for Anna while you have a cup of hot wine?"

  Cecilia looked anxiously toward the back door, then sighed and nodded. "I am in need of something warm."

  Owen left her there, taking the letter with him, but leaving the pouch. When he returned a while later, followed by the servant Sarah carrying a bowl of broth, Owen noted a flush on Cecilia's face. And the pouch had been moved. So she had examined it. That did not necessarily mean she feared there was something incriminating in it, but it could. Owen did not like the complexities that he'd begun to see in this family.

  In the morning, Jasper seemed out of danger. He understood what Lucie said to him and managed to swallow some broth. Lucie and Tildy fixed up a bed for him in Tildy's tiny room behind the kitchen. It shared the chimney with the kitchen, and he could stay warm there and yet be out of sight of any visitors. Melisende circled the boy's pallet, sniffing and considering, then jumped up on his chest and stared at him for a while. When Jasper reached out and stroked her gently between the ears, she gave her approval, turned three times round, and settled on the boy's stomach, purring. Jasper fell into a healthy slumber. Lucie and Tildy were just sitting down to some bread and cheese when the shop bell rang.

  "Lord have mercy, what now?" Lucie muttered as she went to answer the door.

  A youthful-looking man in the colorful livery of a Town Wait stood without. "Ambrose Coats," he said with a bow. "Are you Mistress Wilton?"

  "I am." Lucie stood aside for him to enter, noting that he carried a bundle. She lit a lamp by the counter and studied her visitor. His green eyes were large in a slender, bony, but not unhealthy face. He looked worried or frightened. "How can I help you, Master Coats? It is unusually early. . . ."

  "Forgive me, I could wait no longer. A friend advised me to bring my trouble to you." Ambrose Coats smiled shyly and took off his felt hat. Dark blond curls tumbled into his eyes, and he pushed his hair back with a gloved hand.

  "What trouble?"

  Ambrose set the bundle on the counter. "It is this-- I apologize for bringing such a hideous thing into your shop, but I could not think what else to do. I understand that Captain Archer is helping the Archbishop look for the murderers of the two mercers. I-- Oh dear, perhaps if I just--" He unwrapped the bundle.

  Lucie crossed herself and whispered a prayer. "Gilbert Ridley's hand?"

  "That is what I fear, Mistress Wilton. It was on my doorstep yesterday. I thought perhaps my neighbor's pig had dug it up somewhere and had left it there."

  "It was just sitting there, unwrapped?"

  "Yes."

  Lucie noted that his voice changed with that answer. Ambrose Coats was lying. About what?

  "Why not take it to a city bailiff?"

  Ambrose looked down at his boots. "I-- I prefer that no one know. I am employed by the city. I must not be connected to any scandal." He shrugged.

  "Why do you assume this is Gilbert Ridley's hand? Pigs are outlawed in the city because of their habit of digging up graves. It could be anyone's hand, gnawed off any corpse."

  Ambrose grimaced. "But the wrist. It was done with a sword or ax, don't you see? Not a pig's teeth." He was shifting from foot to foot now, and his voice slightly breathless, as if--

  "Are you going to be sick, Master Coats?"

  "Oh dear me," he passed a gloved hand over his forehead, "I think not. But it is not easy to speak of it."

  "It could be the hand of a thief cut off and buried outside the gates."

  Ambrose shook his head. "Too far for the pig to carry."

  "You are rather set on its being the pig's treasure."

  "I suppose I could be wrong."

  "Did you know Will Crounce or Gilbert Ridley?"

  "I knew Master Ridley only to nod to. I knew Will better. Because of the pageant. We had rehearsed together. Yes, I knew Will. A gentle, talented man."

  "Is it possible that someone left this on your doorstep as a warning?"

  The green eyes widened in alarm. "A warning? How could it be? I knew Will, but how could I be connected with Master Ridley?"

  Lucie took his answer to mean that he had thought about it. And again, she felt that if he was not lying, he was at least not saying everything that was on his mind. She had a thought.

  "Do you live alone?"

  "I-- Yes. I live alone." Ambrose nodded too eagerly, as if convincing himself.

  "Please, Master Coats," Lucie said with rising irritation, "if you did not want to be honest with me, why did you bring your trouble here?"

  "What else could I do?"

  "Rebury it?"

  "But the pig, you see."

  "Why does it concern you what happens to the hand, Master Coats?"

  "I thought it might help Captain Archer to see it. To know that it was in the city." Ambrose shook his head. "I don't really know what I thought. I just wanted to get it out of my house."

  That sounded honest enough--who could blame him? Lucie relaxed a little. "Who advised you to bring it here?"

  "A friend."

  "Someone I know?"

  "You are the Master Apothecary. Everyone knows you."

  "That is not an answer. Who is your friend?"

  Ambrose looked down at the cap in his hand. "I cannot say, Mistress Wilton."

  Lucie sighed. "I do not appreciate your giving me half the truth, Master Coats. It makes me wonder what you are hiding. Whether you have good reason for not going to the bailiff."

  "I am sorry I bothered you. Would you like me to take it back?"

  "No, of course not. But you might give me more information. Have you nothing more to tell me?"

  Ambrose shook his head.

  "Then let me get this out of my shop and get back to my breakfast." Lucie came round the counter and opened the door.

  "God be with you, Mistress Wilton." Ambrose Coats whisked past her and disappeared into the foggy morning.

  Lucie rewrapped the hand and took it out to the potting s
hed, scrubbed the shop counter, and washed her hands before she returned to her bread and cheese. She decided to put the bundle in a large stone jar and bury it in the back of the garden until Owen returned. At least their garden was walled in. No pigs would dig it up and present it to another innocent neighbor.

  But was Ambrose Coats innocent? He hid something from her, and yet he had brought the hand. The murderer would not have done that. And if Ambrose felt he might be the next victim, would he not have admitted that?

  Lucie wished Owen were home.

  10/ Forebodings

  Although cold and gray, the afternoon was dry. Owen was out in a held behind the manor house shooting at a makeshift target. It was the best way he knew to relax, emptying his mind of everything but the bow, the arrow, the target, his arms, and sighting.

  Owen had spent the morning helping Cecilia bleed Anna to rid her of the humours that kept bringing on fever. The young woman slept now, and Cecilia had gone to rest for a while. John had left for York in the morning, carrying a letter from Owen to Lucie. Owen wrote that he missed Lucie. He thanked her for sending John so quickly with the new information. It did, however, mean he must stay longer; how long he could not say. He explained the situation with Paul and Anna Scorby.

  It had felt good to write down his thoughts, though Owen could not include everything, in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. Indeed, as he rested against a tree, Owen wondered whether he had been wise to mention Paul Scorby in the letter. The man disturbed Owen. Out in the field, his type meant trouble because he would be unpredictable, reacting with violent anger to something that had been acceptable the day before. Owen could not tell from his brief observation what Scorby was after. He might be watching the manor. And, if so, might Scorby not waylay John and search him to see what messages were being sent away?

  It was little details like this that made Owen's work for the Archbishop frustrating. If one waited until confident that everything was considered before making a move, one would never move. And yet it was the little details that could prevent disaster. Life as a soldier had been so much simpler. Someone attacked, he shot him. Simple as that.

  Owen cleared his mind and went through another round of arrows. Tonight, if Anna Scorby still rested quietly, without fever, Owen would mention the poisonous "remedy" to Cecilia. He must be clearheaded for that.

  Father Cuthbert was sitting with Anna, praying with her, and Alfred and Colin were on guard at the gatehouse. So Owen and Cecilia were to dine alone. Cecilia wore a peaked headdress draped with a sheer, black veil that fell softly over her dark hair, coiled on either side of her face. No wimple hid her long, white neck. Owen wondered how Ridley had dared leave his wife alone most of their married life. She dressed simply, but the style became her. Became her very much indeed.

  Owen told himself he must put aside such thoughts and concentrate on his business, which was not to endear himself to Cecilia Ridley. He permitted himself to keep to pleasant topics until they had finished their meal.

  Then Owen put Ridley's pack on the table. 'As I told you, Mistress Ridley, this was found under Foss Bridge. We believe it is Gilbert's. I hoped you might look through it and tell me if that is so. And, if it is, perhaps you can tell whether anything is missing." Owen pushed the pack across to Cecilia.

  She touched it cautiously, as if afraid to open it.

  Was it possible that she had moved it yesterday, but not looked inside? Was she afraid what she might find? Or was she afraid that she would give something away in how she behaved about the pack? "I have looked inside," he assured her. "The hand is not there, if that's what frightens you."

  "The leather is damp." Her voice was tense. She did not look up at Owen, but kept her eyes on the pack.

  "It would be, yes."

  Cecilia opened the pack. When she drew out the shoes, her eyes filled with tears. "These are Gilbert's." She blinked, hugged the shoes to her.

  Owen thought with a shiver how he would feel if they were Lucie's shoes and she were lying dead in the chapel. It was the everyday things that would most remind him of her, particularly her shawl and her hair combs. "Take your time," Owen said gently. "Try to remember what Gilbert usually carried in this pack."

  Cecilia placed the shoes on the table. "I do not know how helpful I will be. Gilbert packed for his trips himself." She took out one of the pouches, opened it. Empty. "He carried money in this one, I think. So they did take his money."

  "Would he have been carrying a lot of money? Was he doing any business besides his business with the Archbishop?"

  Cecilia shook her head. "I think not. He had been-- He had handed most of the business over to our son, Matthew. I think this visit was only for the donation to the minster."

  "Why did he hand the business over to Matthew?" Owen had never been satisfied with Ridley's explanation.

  Cecilia played with the string on the empty money pouch. "Do you want to know the reason Gilbert gave me, or what I think?" Now she looked Owen in the eye.

  Considering his dissatisfaction with Ridley's explanation, Owen said, "I would like to know what you think."

  "I believe Gilbert had criticized John Goldbetter once too often. He felt Goldbetter was giving in to the King too much. Matthew worships the King and Prince Edward. He will be far more accommodating."

  "Did you and Gilbert talk about this?"

  Cecilia shook her head. "Will told me," she said softly. She set the money pouch aside and reached for another item. One at a time, Cecilia picked up the small pouches, opened them, looked inside, closed them, piled them to the side. Her hands trembled. When she had checked them all, Cecilia sat with her hands clenched together on the table before her.

  "This spoon," Owen said, picking it up. "Is the stone valuable?"

  Cecilia glanced at it. "Not really. Gilbert thought it pretty. He had a London silversmith set it in the handle for him. When he was going to sup with Prince Edward."

  Owen nodded. "You have seen it all. Is anything missing that you can think of? Anything you know Gilbert carried that was neither in the pack they brought with his body or in this pack?"

  Cecilia shook her head.

  Owen figured he deserved the failure. He had tried to trick her, and it was not working. He must get to the point. "Mistress Ridley, there was another pouch that has been removed. It was half-filled with a powder that appeared to be a physick of some sort."

  She looked up, her eyes guarded. "A physick?"

  "I presume the one your husband took when he dined with the Archbishop. The one he said you made up for him."

  Cecilia shook her head. "I have told you that I'd stopped making the physick when it did no good. Gilbert worsened."

  "And what was in that physick? You said it was to help him sleep?"

  "Yes. And to calm his digestion. Mints of various kinds, and anise, raspberry leaf, a small amount of comfrey, some barks that my mother collected long ago ... Is that anything like the physick you found in his pack?"

  If she was lying, she was being clever, describing something completely unlike the incriminating powder. "No," Owen said. "What we found was something meant to thicken the blood and keep the mind sharp. Not something for the digestion."

  Cecilia shook her head. "That is not what I had made for him."

  "Where else might he have gone for something like this?" Owen asked.

  "I cannot say. But Gilbert was feeling unwell, and he was wasting away. I can understand why he would try someone else's skill."

  Cecilia frowned down at the pack, then up at Owen. "You say the powder was removed. Why?" She studied Owen's face, then suddenly stood up, her right hand to her throat. "Are you playing a game with me? What are you after?"

  "It was a perfectly harmless powder, except for one ingredient." Owen paused, watching Cecilia's reaction. It seemed forced, as if she were acting. And she would not look him in the eye. "The ingredient was arsenic," he said.

  "Arsenic," she whispered, her eyes on her hands. "Dear God." The
long, slender hands pressed into the table.

  "It was a small amount. Your husband was dying slowly. It would not have been a fierce pain, but dull and constant."

  "Gilbert," Cecilia whispered.

  "I must ask you. Did you fix the physick I have described for your husband?"

  At last she raised her eyes to Owen and stared at him without blinking for a long moment. "Captain Archer, I told you I stopped making my mint remedy when I saw no improvement." She took a deep breath. "I do not understand this. You said Gilbert died when his throat was slit. Like Will. Did you lie? Why would someone also poison him?"

  "Your husband died as I told you he did. I do not think whoever slit his throat was the same person who was poisoning him. That would make no sense."

  Cecilia Ridley said nothing, just stared at Owen.

  He wished more than anything to escape from those dark eyes full of pain, but he must persist. It would be worse to return to it later. "Then this powder your husband carried in his pack was not anything you had prepared for him?"

  "I do not see how it could be," Cecilia said quietly. She remained regarding him with those disturbing eyes.

  The answer bothered Owen--because he did not believe her, or because it still felt evasive? He could not say. He managed to return her stare steadily for a time, wishing he was a better student of people. Could someone stare like she did and be lying? Or was a liar better able to do that than someone caught off guard, an innocent confronted with a horrible suspicion? Owen did not know

  why in Heaven's name the Archbishop trusted him in such business. He was too ignorant of people.

  Cecilia stood up. "I must tell Lisa to take some food up to Anna."

  "Forgive me for asking such questions," Owen said. "I could think of no way to ask them without hurting you, and I had to ask them."

  "I understand," Cecilia said without emotion. "1 have not for a moment forgotten why you are here." She left him.

  Owen's back and legs ached as if he had not moved throughout dinner. He stretched his legs out and poured more wine. He did not believe Cecilia, not about the physick. Why? He had believed her tears when she held her dead husband's shoe. But there was more that disturbed him. When he'd come to Riddlethorpe the first time, he'd sensed in her a great unhappiness. She had not struck him as a woman who easily hid her emotions. But now she was subtle. She answered carefully. She used tears at the right moment. And she used those mysterious eyes and that silken hair to distract him. But, damn it, distract him from what?