by P K Adams
The look she gave me had something calculating in it. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I haven’t seen him lately.” She chuckled, “To be honest, I thought he was with you.”
“With me?”
“Oh, come! I see how he looks at you.” She lifted her dark, perfectly outlined eyebrows meaningfully. “I thought the feeling was mutual. In fact, I thought that explained your recent disappearance.”
“Of course not,” I scoffed, more loudly than I intended. “I’m married!”
Maria threw her head back with a hearty laugh. “An impediment that has stopped few.”
“Well, it stops me.” I paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to the terrace. Irritated with the turn this conversation had taken, I wanted to be rid of Maria—the woman was only tolerable in small doses.
She must have noticed my reaction, for she said, in a tone both conciliatory and oddly coaxing, “Don’t be cross, Caterina. There is nothing wrong with a little romance when you’re away from home. But if you don’t find that appealing …” She let the phrase hang between us for a heartbeat, then added, seeing that I would not take the bait, “Well, it’s up to you.” She gave me a pat on the shoulder and turned away in a whirl of crimson skirts.
“If I see him, I’ll let him know you were looking for him,” she said over her shoulder before she disappeared inside.
I rolled my eyes and followed at a slower pace.
* * *
With still no word from Opaliński, I went to supper in the banqueting hall early, before the biggest crowd gathered, which usually happened after seven o’clock on those nights there was a feast. The duke did most of his entertaining on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, although since Barbara’s arrival in his life these revels were said to take place more frequently.
It was Friday, but when I arrived, I saw a half-full hall and no musicians. The mood struck me as subdued, at least compared to last Sunday’s festivities when I had first seen Barbara. The food, too, was less elaborate. No stuffed swans or sugar unicorns this time. Instead, there were platters of roasted duck, and the pungent smell of fish stew filled the air. Oranges, apples, candied walnuts, and bowls of quince dessert lay ready to lure the lovers of sweet things.
Most likely, this simplicity stemmed from Zygmunt’s absence. I had no doubt that rumors were already circulating. These diners would amplify and distort the tales, then take them to the baths and into the town.
I sat next to a middle-aged Polish noblewoman married to a Lithuanian lord. Upon learning that I had come to Vilnius for a consultation with Doctor Nascimbene, she proceeded to regale me with a litany of her own ailments. I strongly suspected most of them were imaginary, given the woman’s solid figure and the appetite with which she devoured her duck and chewed on slices of oranges before licking the juice off her fingers.
With feigned attentiveness, I listened to the miracles performed on her person by the Italian physician. I nodded occasionally as I scanned the faces around the hall. Eventually, she turned her attention to the person on her other side, leaving me free to study the diners. Was Milda’s killer among us, partaking of the duke’s generosity even as he or she plotted to destroy his happiness? I did not see any of the Habsburg emissaries—had they left the city, or would they arrive at the supper late, and which would be more suspicious? I found that I could not answer these questions. The killer had used poisoned wine from Spain, a Habsburg domain, and had carelessly left the kitchen door unlocked; other than that, I had few clues to go on. It was possible, I thought grimly, that our quarry’s identity might never be known.
A commotion at the door alerted me to a new arrival, and I was surprised to see Rudy Radziwiłł. Why was he not with his sister, who, given the duke’s absence from the public for the second day in a row, must still be unwell?
The duke’s secretary Rotundus and the florid-faced courtier Piotr Frikacz came in with Rudy, and the three of them proceeded to the high table and took their customary seats, talking in low voices among themselves. Rudy showed no signs of yesterday’s fury, and he surveyed the gathering with a pensive air. Apprehension had replaced last Sunday’s confidence, robbing him of his air of a courtier about to reach the pinnacle of influence.
Or he was pretending admirably. I could not get Maria’s words out of my head. Someone is trying to set Bona up to take the blame. What if Rudy had arranged this attempt on his sister’s life? He would not have wanted to kill her, of course. He would have known about the taster, and he would have sacrificed the girl without a second thought—of that I had no doubt—in order to harden the duke’s heart against the queen even further. The arrival of the Habsburgs in Vilnius might have pushed Rudy into action. What if they managed to persuade Zygmunt to make another political marriage? It would not necessarily mean giving up Barbara—he could still keep her as a mistress—but the Radziwiłłs’ influence would be curtailed.
It made so much sense, and, if true, would be so outrageous that my breath caught in my throat when I tried to imagine how I would tell the duke about it. Would he believe me, or would such an accusation enrage him? He would have to accept it if I had proof, but, of course, I had none.
I left the food on my plate untouched and made my way out of the hall. I needed to share my thoughts with someone, and the only safe person to ask—the only one who might provide some insight into how to proceed—was Chamberlain Opaliński.
I climbed one flight of stairs, but as I turned toward the duke’s apartments, a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. “Good evening.” Zaremba stood on the next landing up. With his sword buckled to his belt and his combination of black leather and velvet, his frame outlined by a torch mounted on the wall, I had to admit he looked fetching.
“Panie Zaremba.” I inclined my head. I was glad of the dim light, for his presence still unsettled me.
He descended unhurriedly, giving me more time to compose myself. His steps echoed in the empty staircase. “I got your message last night.”
“Yes. I’m sorry about the delay.” Now that he was closer, I could see that despite his elegant attire, he looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he had not slept much, and his beard had grown into a stubble across his jaw. Again it occurred to me that he must spend his time in the baths or taverns or one of the city’s many brothels. But that was none of my business.
When he did not respond, I made to go. “I have something I must see to.”
“May I ask what? Perhaps I can be of help?” Under his courteous exterior, I detected a touch of impatience. He seemed eager to return to Kraków, although I did not know why. If he spent his time in brothels, he could not be that keen to deliver the new headdress to his wife.
“Thank you, but there is no need.” Then I changed my mind. Since he would escort me home, he deserved some explanation for the delay. “There’s been a death in the palace, and I’m looking into the matter for the duke.”
He studied me for a few heartbeats, but his expression was hard to read. “An unexplained death?” he asked. “Do you mean a murder?”
I could not tell from his tone if he had already heard the news. Not for the first time, it struck me how he could make both his voice and his face inscrutable. “There is evidence of foul play, yes.”
“Was the victim someone I would know?”
“I don’t believe so. The girl who died was a kitchen servant.”
“Ah.” Silence again. “And the duke asked you to investigate?”
He sounded incredulous. Did he not know about my involvement in Helena’s case? I fought off disappointment—quite illogical given how much I disliked talking about her and my part in her arrest. “Yes, and Chamberlain Opaliński is helping me.” I felt satisfaction at correcting the record, if only to one person.
“And how are you progressing, signora?” he asked, his gaze narrowing. He was still skeptical.
“I’d rather not discuss it,” I said coolly. My irritation rose—at the situation in which I found myself
, at Zaremba’s condescension, and at his persistent questioning. “But I can’t leave yet. If you are in a hurry, however, you should go. I can travel with the courtiers.”
“Her Majesty tasked me with bringing you back to Kraków, and I will.” He inclined his head slightly, his eyes not leaving my face. It was a deep, penetrating look.
“Then I hope the delay will not be long,” I said, taking a step back.
“Please keep me informed.” He bowed.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he resumed his descent of the staircase, heading toward the banqueting hall.
“I will,” I said as he turned to look at me one last time over his shoulder.
When he was gone, I smoothed my gown and ran a hand across my forehead to recompose myself. Then I walked to the door of Zygmunt’s apartments, where the guard, already familiar, moved aside to let me in. Inside, the scene differed little from the previous day: a few stalwart courtiers talking in hushed tones, still expectant but with a creeping air of resignation.
I crossed the antechamber toward Opaliński’s office and knocked. He bid me enter and rose from his table when I came in, a rare look of animation on his face. “Caterina! Good timing. I was just about to send for you. Jurgis has been found.”
* * *
Moments later, we were on our way to the southern wing of the palace, where Jurgis waited for us in a chamber within the captain’s headquarters. I considered sharing my earlier thoughts regarding Mikołaj Rudy with the chamberlain but decided it would be better to see what the boy had to say. For his part, Opaliński informed me that the search had taken so long because they had started at the cheapest inns in the poorest parts of town but found Jurgis in Under the White Swan, not far from the palace. It was one of the fanciest such establishments in Vilnius, where the best rooms had feather-stuffed mattresses and no fleas.
I was fully prepared for a cleaned-up version of the boy described by Oksana, the result of an older man’s generosity. During my frequent travels of late, I had seen more than one handsome youngster pampered by a wealthy patron of particular tastes, whom he accompanied on a business trip or to a country estate while the patron’s wife and children remained behind in the city.
I was therefore puzzled to find that Jurgis still fit the maid’s depiction exceedingly well. Barefoot, with threadbare trousers and a shirt of indeterminate color that may once have been white, he cut a shabby figure indeed. His matted blond hair looked like it had not seen a comb since Easter. A golden fuzz covered his upper lip and had spread to his cheeks. I guessed his age at around fourteen. Like all peasants, he was tanned and, despite his thinness, well-muscled from hard work.
He was also terrified. His limpid blue eyes shifted from the captain to Opaliński to me like those of a cornered animal, as if he could not decide where the first blow would come from.
The chamberlain ordered the captain to leave us. I looked around for a place to sit but saw few options. The chamber contained a rough-hewn pine table and two hard chairs whose wood bore various greasy and suspiciously rusty stains, as well as cut marks. A bench stood against one wall, covered with a thin, dirty-looking blanket, and from that bench Jurgis rose when we came in. I had no trouble guessing that the place was used as an interrogation room.
Opaliński bade the boy to sit, but as we remained standing—neither of us wishing to take our chances with the rickety chairs—Jurgis sprang to his feet once more. Whether he did so out of respect or because he felt even more intimidated with us looming over him, it was difficult to say. But it took us a good quarter of an hour to persuade him that he was not going to be arrested or sent back home, and that we only wanted information that might help catch his cousin’s killer.
“Don’t know who killed ’er, I swear!” His fist struck his thin chest with a hollow sound. Then his eyes filled. “Don’t know who’d do such a thing. She was a good girl an’ an orphan, poor thing. What will my mum say when she finds out?” His voice was close to breaking.
“I don’t doubt that she was a good girl,” I said reassuringly. “I think, in fact, that she was not the intended target. Somebody wanted to get to Pani Barbara Radziwiłł through her.”
The fear in his eyes redoubled. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. I sensed uncertainty in him, as if he were calculating whether to speak or hold his peace. He knew something.
“Had she talked to any strangers lately?”
His breath quickened, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his face, but he did not speak.
“If you know anything, Jurgis, you must tell us. Milda’s killer committed a grave sin, one he must pay for. As her kin, you want to see justice done for her, don’t you?”
I was thinking that I might have to jiggle his conscience further with a few coins, when he said, haltingly, “She … she said there was a man … at the market …”
I held my breath. “Yes?”
“Asked ’er about the duke’s mistress.”
My heart slowed. “Asked her what, specifically?”
Across from me, Opaliński fixed the boy with an intense look. He was so still I was certain he was not breathing, either.
“When she took ’er meals, what time she went to bed, things like that,” he replied. “Said he was an ad … admirer.”
The chamberlain and I exchanged a look. This was the first solid clue we’d had since discovering the unlocked delivery door. Now we knew that our suspect was a man, and that he had learned about Barbara’s habits from the unfortunate maid.
“And your cousin gave this man the information he wanted?” Opaliński asked like a disappointed parent.
Jurgis nodded and hung his head, as if he himself had committed an indiscretion. But it was more than an indiscretion. It was treason, whether Milda had realized it or not. I wanted to be angry, but I could not, because I guessed her motivation even before Opaliński asked the next logical question.
“Why would she do that?”
There was a long pause during which the boy gathered the courage to say what we both knew was coming. “He gave ’er a silver talon.”
Of course. An impoverished serving girl was an easy target, a perfect source of the information the killer needed. What made the whole incident so sad was that if his scheme had succeeded and Barbara had died, he probably would have killed Milda anyway to cover his tracks, perhaps making it look like an accident. The moment she accepted the payment, her fate was sealed.
“Did she tell you when that meeting happened?”
“On Tuesday.”
I gasped. The day before she died! Opaliński, too, looked alarmed. Perhaps, like me, he had imagined the murder as the result of some complex, painstaking research and plotting of long duration. But now it appeared that everything had happened within the last few days. Suddenly, solving the crime felt even more urgent.
“Did she say what he looked like?” the chamberlain asked.
Jurgis screwed up his face, trying to recall. “Tall, with a funny black beard.” We gazed at him expectantly. “An’ ’e spoke like ’e wasn’t from around ’ere,” he added.
“You mean like a foreigner?”
The boy nodded.
“A German?”
He shrugged.
Not a helpful description, I reflected. A black beard excluded Rudy Radziwiłł, but with half the men in Vilnius bearded, it hardly narrowed the search. The foreign accent also argued against Radziwiłł. Unless it was someone acting on his behalf …
“Do you know where the money is now?” I asked. We had not found even a copper coin, much less a silver talon, in the maids’ chamber. “Did she spend it all in one day?”
Jurgis’s shoulders slumped, and he hung his head again. His reaction told me what had happened.
“You took it from her hiding place when you learned she was dead and had no more use for it,” I said gently when he failed to answer. “And you used it to pay for your bed at the White Swan, didn’t you?”
All he did in response was nod,
still avoiding my gaze. I wondered if he kept the change or let himself be taken advantage of by the innkeeper. The latter, most likely.
Opaliński rolled his eyes with a what-did-you-expect look. Still, I was glad he took it in stride. It would have been harder to get any information out of Jurgis if the chamberlain acted like a typical royal interrogator, resorting to threats or torture to exact cooperation.
“Do you remember if that coin was Polish or Lithuanian or came from a different country altogether?” I asked.
Again Jurgis shrugged. He might never have seen a full talon before, and he almost certainly could not read.
“All right,” I said. “I appreciate what you’ve told us so far, and I have just one more question for you.”
He looked up, timid yet clearly affected by my acknowledgment. He seemed eager to please.
“Do you know if this man asked Milda for the key to the kitchen where she worked?”
He shook his head with a disappointed air. “She didn’t tell me nothing like that.”
I reached into the small purse I carried at my belt and pulled out a few silver pennies. “This should buy you a bed and a bowl of stew for a couple of days until you can make your travel arrangements.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Jurgis took them readily enough, which told me that he had indeed been cheated at the inn.
Shortly afterward, we sent him out of the palace into the dark September night.
* * *
It was almost ten o’clock when we returned to the chamberlain’s office. The antechamber was empty, the courtiers having given up for the day. It had been a long one for me, too, but, strangely, I did not feel tired. The information Jurgis had given us, although it had fallen short of providing a firm lead, was intriguing.
“He wouldn’t have had time to have the key duplicated, so he must have found another way to access the kitchen,” I reflected as I bit into a pear from a bowl on Opaliński’s desk. I had barely eaten anything all day and was hungry.