"What are you going to do?" he asked, surprising himself by his willingness to interrogate one of the queen's justiciars. But he was done with fumbling around in the dark; what he didn't know could get him killed.
Marshal seemed to take it for granted that he was entitled to ask such questions. "I will go to Windsor, demand that John surrender the castle to the queen and the justiciars."
"And if he refuses?"
"Then we shall lay siege to it."
Justin considered that possibility. "And once you've captured the castle, what then, my lord? What will be done with Lord John?"
Marshal gave him a sidelong smile. "I would to God I knew, lad," he said, and Justin nodded slowly. How did they punish a man who was likely to inherit the very crown he was now trying to usurp?
~~
"Are you sure you know where we're going, de Quincy?" Luke swerved to avoid a wayward goose. "And what of Agnes? Ought she not to be coming with us?"
"She was summoned to the Astons' house early this morn to tend her sister. She left word with Nell that she'd wait for us there." Justin shaded his eyes against the bright glare of noonday sun and whistled for Shadow, who was foraging in the street's center gutter. "She said their shop is on Friday Street."
"Is the sister ailing?"
Justin shrugged. "Even the most stout-hearted soul might well be undone when murder is suspected, and Beatrice seems frailer than most. Nell says she takes to her bed whenever a family crisis looms."
"And they'll be looking to you as their savior. What happens when you cannot deliver all that Nell promised?"
Justin shrugged again. "Mayhap we'll get lucky and prove the killer is not one of the nephews, after all," he said, although without much conviction; it was hard to argue with Luke's jaded insistence that in most killings, the victim's loved ones were the logical suspects.
"Well, you'll have to catch the killer without me. I thought I'd head for home on the morrow."
Justin was sorry, but not surprised. As much as he'd have liked Luke's help, he had never expected the deputy to remain much longer in London, not with duty and Aldith both pulling him back to Winchester.
Luke glanced in his direction, then away. "I was thinking I'd stop over at Windsor. If there is going to be a siege, the sheriff of Hampshire will be one of those summoned. It makes no sense to go all the way to Winchester, only to have to come back again straightaway."
Justin turned to stare at him. Luke's logic sounded forced to him, the reasoning of a man who - for whatever reason - was not that eager to go home. Was his quarreling with Aldith as serious as that? Before he could respond, Luke suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Do you see that woman in the green gown? She is about to pluck a pigeon ... Ah, and there he is."
Justin saw nothing suspicious about the woman in question; she was young and pretty and respectably dressed, her gown of good wool, her veil of fine white linen. She was carrying several bundles, one of which slipped from her grasp as Luke's designated "pigeon" crossed her path. When he gallantly retrieved it, he was rewarded with an enchanting smile, and within moments, he was insisting that he tote the rest of her parcels for her.
Watching with a knowing grin, Luke nudged Justin with his elbow. "Now the hawk swoops down on our pigeon's money pouch," he predicted, nodding toward a burly youth in a pointed Phrygian cap, who was striding purposefully across the street, apparently oblivious of the couple in his way. The victim was mindful only of the young woman clinging to his arm and a collision seemed imminent... until Luke lunged forward, calling out in a loud, jovial voice sure to turn heads, "Is that you, Ivo? By God, it is!"
The victim looked puzzled as this boisterous stranger bore down upon him. The stalker veered off, was soon swallowed up in the crowds thronging the Cheapside. The woman frowned, recoiling as Luke draped a friendly arm around her shoulders. "But this is not Berta. Ivo, you sly dog!"
"I'm not Ivo! I've never laid eyes upon you ... wait, lass!" This last plea was addressed to the woman, who'd snatched back her parcels and was already moving hastily away. Disappointment finding expression in anger, the man glared at Luke. "You oaf, you scared her off!"
"Be glad he did," Justin interjected, "for he thwarted her partner from lifting your money pouch."
The man's hand went instinctively to the pouch. Reassured to find it still swinging safely from his belt, he glanced dubiously from Justin to Luke. After a moment to mull it over, his scowl came back. "A likely story," he scoffed. "I know women right well and that little lass was no thief. But the pair of you look like you were born for the gallows. You were the ones trying to steal my money, not her!" Backing away, he flung a threat over his shoulder about summoning the Watch and then strode off indignantly, shoving through the press of interested spectators.
Justin and Luke stared after him in astonishment, but as soon as their eyes met, they burst out laughing. "Well," Luke said, with a grin, "now you know why I was so suspicious of you from the first moment we met. You've got a cutthroat's look to you, for certes!"
"He thought we both looked like outlaws," Justin reminded him. "How did you know they'd planned a theft?"
"I saw the wench and her man signaling to each other once they picked out their quarry, the same hand signals I've seen cutpurses use back in Winchester." Luke shook his head in mock regret and gave Justin a playful shove. "Devil take me if I foil any more crimes in this accursed city of yours, de Quincy. You Londoners are an ungrateful lot!"
Justin pushed him back and they began to laugh again... until a voice said coldly, "Are these the men you recommended, Agnes?"
The words themselves might be neutral, but the tone dripped disdain. Justin and Luke swung around to stare at the man regarding them with evident disapproval. He was of medium height and stocky build, with reddish hair sprinkled with grey, and eyes even greener than Luke's. Agnes was half hidden behind his broad-shouldered body; all they could see was her face, scarlet with embarrassment.
"I am Humphrey Aston." He flung the name out as a challenge. "When you did not arrive on time, we went to look for you." He left unsaid the rest of the sentence, the unspoken accusation: that they'd been engaging in tomfoolery whilst he'd been kept waiting. The message was clearly conveyed, though, in the pursed lips, the frigid eyes.
By the time he'd stopped talking, Justin had decided that Humphrey Aston was the last man in Christendom deserving of his help. But Agnes was mouthing a silent "please" and so he resisted the urge to turn and walk away. "I am Justin de Quincy," he said coolly, "and this is Luke de Marston, the undersheriff for Hampshire."
Humphrey acknowledged the introductions with a grudging nod. "My wife's sister thinks you can help us. What I want to know is how much that help will cost.
It had never occurred to Justin to charge a fee. He started to say that, but his dislike of Aston was too strong. "That depends. What is a son worth to you?"
His attempt to rattle the older man failed; Humphrey didn't even blink. "Which one?"
Luke swore softly. "Come on, de Quincy. Why waste our time?"
Justin shook his head, feeling a sharp thrust of pity for Humphrey's sons. "You could not afford me," he said. "I am doing a favor ... for Agnes."
Humphrey reddened, then looked balefully at Agnes, as if Justin's insolence was somehow her fault. "We'll talk at home," he said at last, turning on his heel. Justin patted Agnes consolingly on the shoulder, blocked Luke's escape, and they followed, reluctantly, but they followed.
The mercer's shop fronted onto Friday Street, with the family quarters above. Humphrey Aston's prosperity was such that he'd been able to afford a hall, set at a right angle to the shop, extending back along the property line. It was here that he led the men, bypassing his shop and entering by a side gate that opened into a crowded courtyard. His family was gathered in the hall, seated at a wooden trestle table. They'd been talking among themselves, but fell silent at the sight of Humphrey, appearing more apprehensive than relieved by the patriarch's return
.
Beatrice Aston was younger than her husband, somewhere in her forties. She probably had been quite appealing in her youth, for she still retained a faded prettiness. Coiled blond hair shone beneath a gossamer veil, and her eyes were wide set and as blue as cornflowers. But any assurance she'd ever possessed had been stripped away, leaving her insecurities and anxieties Painfully abraded and exposed. Although she did her best to make Luke and Justin welcome, she kept glancing toward Humphrey, as uneasy about incurring his disapproval as the timid little maidservant who served them wine and wafers.
Justin could not help sympathizing with Humphrey's cowed wife; he would have sympathized with anyone unlucky enough to live under the same roof with the domineering mercer. But his interest was much greater in the Astons' two sons.
Geoffrey was by far the handsomer of the two, with his mother's fair hair and deep blue eyes. He showed the poise expected of a firstborn son, the family favorite. He did indeed have a heartbreaking smile, as Nell had claimed, although it seemed to surface now from habit, never reaching his eyes. Justin had wondered if he'd be too smug and spoiled to realize the danger he faced; clearly that was not the case. Geoffrey was doing his very best to appear calm and optimistic, but he could not sit still for more than a few moments and his eyelids were faintly swollen. Had he shed tears for the peddler's daughter ... or were they all for this calamity that threatened to engulf his family?
The younger son, Daniel, had inherited his father's height and build and color. He had an untidy mass of curly red hair, wary green eyes, and a square-cut face filled with freckles. Unlike his restive, edgy brother, he was unnaturally rigid, his the intensely focused stillness of an animal caught in a trap, awaiting discovery. Geoffrey's greeting had been effusive and heartfelt; Daniel's terse to the point of rudeness. Geoffrey might welcome their intercession; Daniel obviously did not.
Once the introductions were over, there was an uncomfortable silence. Justin glanced toward Luke for guidance, but the deputy was amusing himself by tossing bits of wafer to Shadow, much to Humphrey's smoldering annoyance. Justin took a deep breath and plunged in. "Suppose you tell me of the day Melangell died."
He'd been addressing Geoffrey, but it was Humphrey who answered. "We've already been over this with the sheriff's serjeants. We know nothing of this girl's death. She was most likely killed by a disgruntled customer." Seeing Justin's lack of comprehension, he said impatiently, "She peddled more than the cheap goods on her father's cart. She was a harlot, plain and simple, and I do not doubt that her whoring brought about her death."
Geoffrey's head jerked up. He seemed about to speak, but then subsided, his shoulders slumping. Daniel glanced up, too, giving them a brief, unsettling glimpse of a white-hot rage. But he also kept quiet. Melangell's defense came not from either of the young men said to have been her lovers. It was Agnes who spoke up, nervously, for she, too, was intimidated by her brother-in-law. Yet this plump, placid barber's wife had a strong sense of fair play, strong enough to give her the courage to lodge a timorous protest.
"I do not..." She hesitated, coughing to clear her throat. "I do not believe that Melangell was a whore. She was flighty and reckless at times, yes, but not wicked-"
"What do you know of evil?" Humphrey snapped. "What do you know about anything at all? This peddler's chit was a wanton, as any man with eyes to see could tell, strutting about in her beads and her whore's scarlet, bold as can be and shameless, exposing herself to the stares in the street and laughing at the leers and jests-"
Justin had heard enough. "Be that as it may, we've gone astray. I did not ask you about her morals or the lack of them. I need to find out how she passed her last day. Can you help me with that, Master Aston? If not, I'd suggest that you let your sons speak for themselves."
Humphrey was not accustomed to being interrupted. His mouth fell open and he stared at Justin, ignoring his wife as she reached over and placed a placating hand upon his arm. But there was fear behind his bluster, and it won out. As much as it galled him to admit it, he needed Justin's help. "I did not see the girl that day," he said curtly.
Justin glanced then toward Geoffrey. "Did you?"
Geoffrey seemed startled to find himself suddenly the center of attention, but he answered readily enough. "No, I did not." He looked from Justin to Luke, saw their skepticism, and repeated his denial. "It is true I sometimes met her in the churchyard. It was close to our shop.. ." This time his gaze flicked toward his father. "But not on that day. The last I saw of her was on Tuesday, two days ere she ... she died." He kept his voice level, but he swallowed hard and his lashes swept down, veiling his eyes.
"And you?" Justin swung around to face Daniel. "We know you met with her. There are witnesses willing to swear you were quarreling on Cheapside earlier in the day. Suppose you tell us what that quarrel was about."
Daniel's eyes slitted. "I do not remember."
Justin did not believe him. It was obvious that his father did not, either. "I warned you," Humphrey said ominously, "that your memory had better improve, did I not?"
Justin looked from the sullen boy to his belligerent father, then over at Geoffrey, flushed and unhappy. Beatrice daubed at the corners of her eyes with a table napkin, but she did not attempt to mediate between her husband and son. She seemed to Justin more like a bystander than a member of the family. He'd always mourned the loss of his own mother, who'd died giving him birth. For the first time, he realized that death was not the only means of losing a mother. When his gaze met Luke's, the deputy jerked his head sideways. Justin agreed wholeheartedly; they needed to get out of there.
Rising, he said, "You've given me enough for now. I will see what else I can find out about this crime and get back to you." Adding, as if in afterthought, "I would like Geoffrey and Daniel to accompany me to the churchyard where these trysts were held."
Humphrey opened his mouth to object, but both his sons jumped to their feet so hastily that they forestalled him. Their departure was swift, almost an escape, and within moments, they were standing together out in the street in front of the mercer's shop.
Geoffrey waved to a neighbor, then turned to face Justin and Luke. "We'd best start walking," he said. "My father will soon be out to watch for us. We can show you where the church is, but I'd rather not go into the churchyard. I do not want to see where she died and I am sure Daniel does not, either. I thought – hoped - your request was merely an excuse to talk with us alone."
He looked at them quizzically and Justin found himself responding to the other youth's forthrightness. "You're correct," he admitted. "I did think that we'd do better on our own."
Geoffrey nodded. "I did not kill her, Master de Quincy. My brother and I are innocent."
Geoffrey sounded sincere. Justin wanted to believe him, but he suspected that the gaols were probably filled with killers who could sound no less convincing. Glancing toward Daniel, who'd remained silent so far, he said, "What about you, Daniel? Has your memory gotten any better?"
Daniel hunched his shoulders, staring down at his feet. "I've nothing to say to you."
"You'll talk to us if we take you down to Newgate Gaol," Luke said brusquely. "Make no mistake about that, lad."
It was obvious that Luke was not impressed with the younger Aston son. Justin wasn't much taken with Daniel, either. But he wanted to be fair and it was likely the boy's surly defiance was born of fear. "We cannot help you, Daniel, unless you cooperate with us."
"Help me?" Daniel echoed, not troubling to hide his disbelief. "How stupid do you think I am?"
"That remains to be seen," Luke drawled. "Were you stupid enough to let yourself become besotted with a young Welsh whore? Were you stupid enough to kill her when she rejected you?"
Luke's provocation was calculated -and effective. Geoffrey frowned, protesting, "That is not fair."
Daniel's reaction was less controlled and more revealing. His face twitched as if he'd taken a blow. "Damn you, she was no whore!"
"Your fath
er says she was," Justin pointed out, feeling as if he and Luke were dogs baiting a bear.
"My father ..." Daniel choked up, spat out an unintelligible obscenity, and bolted, running as clumsily as a young colt, a boy who hadn't yet grown into his own body. They watched until he ducked into an alley off the Cheapside, none of them speaking. Geoffrey was pinioning his lower lip, showing even white teeth, his eyes conveying mute reproach. He stood his ground, though, awaiting his turn.
"Who is right?" Justin asked abruptly, "your father or brother? Was Melangell a whore?"
"No," Geoffrey said, showing a prickle of resentment, "she was not. She liked men and she took her pleasures where she found them. But she was no whore."
"Did you kill her?"
"No, I did not... and neither did Daniel."
"Did you love her?"
Geoffrey started to speak, stopped. "I cared about her," he said, for the first time sounding defensive. "I tried to be honest with her, told her about Adela .. . that is the girl I'm to wed. At least I was until this happened." His smile was rueful. "When we were negotiating what I'd be bringing to the marriage, not once was the suspicion of murder mentioned."