Face Down among the Winchester Geese (13 page)

"And the murder?"

"A whore, small and dark, as you say. And her neck broken.” Isabel thought for a moment, “Mariotta, she called herself."

"Was anything left by the body? A feather?"

Isabel did not remember. Petronella went back to her own place of business and thought about the things she'd learned. Then she contacted Lady Appleton.

Grooms did all manual labor connected to the royal stables. As Master of the Queen's Horse, Lord Robin Dudley's position was primarily ceremonial. Between the two extremes, Gentlemen of the Horse and Yeomen of the Horse shared the remaining duties. Sir Robert Appleton and Sir Walter Pendennis ran Francis Elliott to ground in a small counting room in the Royal Mews in Westminster, just a stone's throw from the place where Her Majesty's favorite mount was stabled.

Elliott seemed glad of the interruption. “I've become a damned bookkeeper,” he complained, gesturing to the ledgers spread out before him on a worktable. “Reduced to tracking how many loads of hay we receive when I did not even know at first that a standard load is reckoned by the capacity of a two-wheeled cart extended by lades. Seventy-two bottels,” he clarified, referring to the usual-size bundle in which hay and straw were sold.

Robert had not known that either, though he supposed Susanna must. She handled all the day-to-day business involved in making their lands profitable.

"Do you recall Mistress St. Cyr?” Pendennis asked, moving an ornate saddle, a beechwood frame covered with oxhide and decorated with copper studs, from bench to floor to make room to sit.

"The Frenchwoman I met in your rooms and escorted to Southwark? Aye. I remember her well. A lissome lass. How does she?"

"Dead,” Pendennis said bluntly.

Robert shut the door and leaned against it. “Murdered,” he elaborated.

"A pity,” Elliott said, “but what has this woman's death to do with me? When I saw her last, she was well, and looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with you, Appleton."

"She did not seem ... afraid?” Susanna had insisted Diane looked worried when she visited Catte Street.

"No. Now, if that is all you want to know, I have work to do. The fancy has recently infected some of the queen's horses."

This was news to Robert, and cause for concern. As soon as Elliott mentioned the disease, which produced boils inside a horse's nostrils, he noticed the faint smell of burning frankincense in the air, a common precaution against another equine infection called the mourning. The fancy was thought by some to be an early sign of the mourning, in which abscesses formed in the angle of the jaw. These might burst, either internally or externally, and if the disease did not then run its course quickly, wasting occurred because the horse's throat was too sore for swallowing. Robert worried about Vanguard. On occasion he stabled his favorite stallion here in the Royal Mews.

"Any sign of illness among the Irish stud?” he asked, momentarily diverted from their main purpose in confronting Elliott. They were passing fine coursers. The queen preferred such good strong Irish gallopers to the geldings her ladies rode.

Pendennis cleared his throat. “Diane St. Cyr was killed in the same way Lora Tylney was."

Elliott looked from one to the other, disbelief in his eyes. “You jest?” he suggested weakly.

Robert outlined the few facts they knew about the three St. Mark's Day victims and owned up to his wife's meddling in the matter.

Elliott stared at the quill pens beside the ledgers.

"Gentlemen, what you say fills me with astonishment."

"My wife wishes to question you,” Robert said bluntly.

Elliott's eyes narrowed. “Do you suspect me of these murders? I have no reason to kill anyone."

"Susanna,” Robert assured him, “suspects everyone.” He glanced once at Pendennis, then took care to avoid the other man's too sharp eyes as he launched the diversion he'd devised. “Now that we three have met again, my memory stirs. Does not logic dictate that the murderer we seek is the one who felt most strongly about Lora Tylney?"

"Cordoba?” Pendennis looked thoughtful.

"But he left England years ago,” Elliott objected. “How can he have killed Mistress St. Cyr?"

"It is possible he did not return to Spain. I asked after him when I was there on the queen's business and none did know his name. And of late I have twice seen a man, from a distance, who does much resemble our old companion."

"Where?” Pendennis asked.

"At Durham House. I inquired about him and was told his name is Ruy Vierra. I assumed I was mistaken, but now that I consider, I believe Vierra may in fact be Diego Cordoba. A disguise...?” He let the suggestion trail off.

Pendennis gave him a strange look. “If you had reasoned this out, why did you not report it?"

"Report what? That I might have recognized an old friend?"

"Ruy Vierra is one of the ambassador's clerks,” Pendennis said. “I have lists of the names of all those employed at Durham House. Vierra has been there less than a year."

"Even if Diego Cordoba killed those three women, we will never be able to bring him to trial,” Elliott mused. “The ambassador will simply send him back to Spain at the first hint of an investigation."

"Not if we move swiftly to question him.” Robert reckoned Cordoba had a full day's head start by now. Pendennis would discover the man had fled. He would conclude that guilt had made him go. Then Robert himself would suggest that, having heard questions had been raised about the murders, Cordoba had left to avoid arrest.

What fine irony that ‘twas true!

"We need,” Susanna said, “to make lists."

She and Jennet once again sat together on a chest in Petronella's chamber. Susanna's companion held herself aloof, contributing nothing, still uncertain how she felt about their hostess's profession, but Susanna had decided to treat this visit the same way she would a call upon any ordinary gentlewoman.

"What lists?” Petronella produced paper and pen from an ornate, inlaid box even as she asked the question. She had spent the last hour detailing all she'd learned of other murders in the years between Lora's death and Diane's.

The massive guardian of the gate at the Sign of the Smock, Vincent by name, had assisted in her inquiries, a fact Susanna applauded. Sir Walter's words had made more of an impression upon her than she liked to admit. It was all too possible that the killer, hearing someone had been asking questions, might panic and strike out in order to protect his dark secrets.

"A list of victims first.” Susanna moved to Petronella's writing table and jotted down each name as she spoke it. “1557—Lora Tylney, at court. 1558—Little Alice, in Southwark. 1559—Mariotta, in Duke Humphrey's Rents. 1560—an unnamed woman here in Southwark. But for 1561 we know of no one.” She brushed the feathered end of the quill pen back and forth across the underside of her jaw as she thought. “The celebrations for St. George fall but two days prior to St. Mark's Day. I have heard the court travels to Windsor for those festivities. I wonder if a woman might have been murdered there in 1561. Perhaps Sir Walter can inquire."

"Is he not a suspect?” Petronella asked.

"Aye, but so is mine own husband. What harm in soliciting their assistance? Besides, Sir Walter has at least some promise of proof he was in another place when one murder occurred. For much of the year the woman named Mariotta was killed, he lodged in Paris to carry out the queen's business."

She wished Robert had so good an excuse, but though he made frequent trips out of the country, he had been, to the best of her recollection, in England on every St. Mark's Day for the last six years. To verify her memory, she'd need to consult records kept at Leigh Abbey.

"The journey from Paris to London and back again may be made quickly,” Petronella pointed out. “With post horses and favorable winds for crossing the Narrow Seas, a man might manage it in a week. With careful planning, his absence from Paris might be concealed that long."

Susanna did not like suspecting Sir Walter. She needed him as an ally. But she had to agree with Petronella's reasoning. Perhaps, she thought, she could discover what the weather had been like in April of 1559. A stormy spring would have made such a trip unlikely. She might request access to travel records, as well. Anyone leaving England was supposed to procure a license to do so.

As she felt a smile creep over her features, Susanna bit back awry chuckle. Had she learned nothing from that affair in Gloucestershire? ‘Twas passing simple to forge such documents. Still, every possibility must be investigated.

"1562,” she continued, “Ambrosia La Petite, in Southwark. And this year, Diane St. Cyr, also in Southwark. Now to suspects. Those most closely questioned in the investigation of Lora Tylney's death were my husband and Sir Walter, Lord Robin Dudley, two English gentlemen, Peregrine Marsdon and Francis Elliott, and a Spaniard, Diego Cordoba."

As she rattled off each name and before she wrote it down, Susanna glanced at Petronella. Only the involuntary twitch of an eye indicated the brothelkeeper had greater interest in one man than in the others. Diego Cordoba. Had he given Petronella the information about Lora? The brothelkeeper had not identified her source at their last meeting. She had not known Susanna well enough yet to trust her.

Susanna debated pressing her for information. Cordoba was a likely suspect, at least for Lora's murder. But had he been in England all this while? Most Spaniards had left with their king, shortly after Lora's death.

Sir Walter claimed not to know where Cordoba was. Robert had avoided mentioning him altogether. Both men had behaved oddly when speaking of the man. But why would they attempt to shield him if he was capable of murder?

Too many questions, Susanna thought, and not enough answers. She took a deep breath and spoke bluntly. “You know all five of these suspects, I do think."

Wary once more, Petronella allowed that they were not unfamiliar names to her, but she would admit no more than that. “They are gentlemen of good reputation,” she said. “Influential courtiers. A wise woman is careful not to bring charges against such men without ample proof."

And even then, Susanna acknowledged, allegations of murder might prove more dangerous to the accuser than to the accused.

"Could you hear it all?” Petronella asked as Diego Cordoba slipped out of the bolthole secreted next to the chimney stack and took the chair Lady Appleton had so recently vacated. She'd removed the lists she'd made, but blank parchment, a quill pen, a bottle of ink, and blotting paper remained on the writing table.

"Aye.” Diego said. “'Tis clear she knows nothing yet of my disappearance, but her husband will soon remedy that oversight."

Petronella began to massage his shoulders. He was stiff with tension, a rare state in the easygoing gallant she had known for so many years.

When he had come to her the previous night, he had brought with him clothing, papers, and other personal belongings. He had not asked if he could stay with her. He had told her he meant to. He'd paid well to ensure that no one knew he had taken up residence at the Sign of the Smock, but Petronella would have hidden him for free rather than let him be apprehended.

She'd enjoy having him with her day and night, Petronella thought, were it not for all the questions he refused to answer. He'd share none of his long-range plans. He'd said Sir Robert Appleton, the very man who meant to accuse him of murder, had given him warning and urged him to flee the country, but he would explain none of his reasons for pretending to fall in with Appleton's schemes.

Diego appeared to have no immediate intention of leaving England, or her premises. Even Petronella's revelation of her relationship with Lady Appleton had not convinced him to move on. His only reaction to learning there were at least six victims had been to remark that Sir Robert had mentioned only two.

"I do not understand why you must take the blame,” she dared whisper as she kneaded his muscles. Could Diego be responsible for the deaths of Diane and Lora and the others? Why else would he let Sir Robert drive him into hiding?

"For the greater good.” She heard the bitterness in his voice as he turned and drew her into his arms.

She frowned. He did not deny he was guilty of murder. And someone was. Sir Robert, since he was the one who wished to blame Diego?

Her lover stroked the line of her jaw with one finger and she trembled. “Fear,
querida
? Or desire?” He caught her face in both hands. “You are safe as long as I am here with you.” His kiss sealed in any protest she might have made.

Petronella yielded to desire, believing him when he said he meant her no harm. As they lost themselves in the glories of lovemaking, her own wry cynicism told her that the greatest danger Diego Cordoba posed was not to her life but to her heart.

Jennet had borne silent witness to her mistress's second meeting with the Southwark brothelkeeper and been reluctantly fascinated by both the woman and her profession. The following day, she had occasion to eavesdrop on an even more interesting conversation.

Sir Robert brought a guest home with him, a man so handsome that for a moment she simply stared, speechless and bemused, at hair as golden as the sun and thick as the finest ermine pelt. Beneath large, mild, gray eyes, given unexpected depths by flecks of black, were a straight nose and a short yellow beard.

Under Jennet's admiring scrutiny, his lips curved slowly upward into the most devastatingly masculine smile she had ever received. His features, she thought, could not have been better sculpted by a master, and his body was a fit pedestal for the face. He was a bit shorter than Sir Robert, of slighter build, but beneath the plain black doublet and hose was a hard, muscular body Jennet could not help but admire.

After fetching Lady Appleton, Jennet watched her betters, as she had once before, from the shadowy recess beneath the stairwell, a vantage point from which she could both see and hear.