The Guilt of Innocents (27 page)

Yesterday Hubert would have hated Aubrey for saying that, but he didn’t today. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’ Hubert wanted to wake up and be back at school, before he’d lost the scrip.
Please, God, let me out of this bad dream
.

‘Do you think she’s afraid of Osmund?’ Aubrey asked.

Hubert nodded. ‘I think she may be.’

‘God help her,’ Aubrey murmured. ‘Hubert, believe that I’ve always thought of you as my son, and that I’m proud of your learning, and of how you’ve always helped where you could and looked after your mother.’

Hubert wondered why Aubrey was being so nice to him. ‘I’m not worthy of your kindness.’

‘Not worthy? Oh, Hubert. I was there when you were born and from that moment I’ve loved you.’ Aubrey put his arm around Hubert’s shoulders and smiled at him. ‘What a voice you had from the start!’ He laughed.

Hubert had never thought about being born. ‘I’m sorry I listened to her about you. I thought it was all you, all the fighting.’

Aubrey’s smile was sad. ‘She knows what to say to anger me, that’s a fact. I’ve prayed for patience, I’ve tried to harden myself against her words, but I’m no saint, that is for certain. Sir Baldwin knows of what I speak. And now you. I am sorry she turned on you. Tell me – does she argue with Osmund?’

Hubert nodded.

Aubrey rose to place another thick branch on the fire, poking the coals so that it would catch, then settled back on the pallet beside Hubert, who was content to listen to the crackling and popping for a while. How strange it was to feel so comfortable with Aubrey, to know him as a person, how he felt, why he’d wed. He hoped Aubrey did not
regret it later. It would be nice to have a father like him.

‘What did Osmund Gamyll want with you?’ Aubrey asked. ‘What did he come to talk about?’

Hubert had dreaded the question. He did not want to betray his mother, despite hating her. But Aubrey had not asked what Osmund wanted with his wife.

‘He’s been in York and heard all about –’ Hubert stumbled, not knowing how to begin. ‘I lost something of Ma’s that turned out to be Sir Baldwin’s.’

‘Is that it? Did Osmund accuse her –’ Aubrey shook his head. ‘Go on, son.’

‘I didn’t really
lose
it, it was stolen by a bargeman. With Ma’s scrip – I’d put it in there. And he returned the scrip, I guess, but not the cross. And a man died. The man who stole it.’

He wasn’t surprised that Aubrey looked confused.

‘Why did you have something of your mother’s in one of her scrips?’

‘I was stupid and thought she loved me and I wanted something of hers to keep close to me.’ Hubert began to cry again. He pressed his fists into his eyes to stop the embarrassing tears.

Aubrey had risen. ‘Here, have a little.’

It was a jug of cider. Hubert shook his head, thinking of his mother.

‘Go ahead. When you calm a little more you can explain the rest. I won’t let you have so much you cannot walk and talk, I promise.’

Hubert took the jug and drank, then handed it to Aubrey.

‘When you are ready, you can tell me more.’ Aubrey put the jug into a sagging trunk and left the hut.

Hubert lay back on the pallet, praying for help to stop thinking for a while or to at least slow down his thoughts. He felt as if he had bees in his head, buzzing so loudly that he could not hear his own breath.

Owen and Hempe slipped through the alley door into Nicholas Ferriby’s room to search it. Such a tidy room should not take long, they had reasoned, and they would be away before the school day ended. Hempe took a large semi-circular vestment press that looked full of clothing, Owen searched the shelves. Nicholas had a simple but still costly book of hours, some letters from parents and guardians, several hats. He took the hats down one at a time and at the bottom made a discovery. Tucked within one was the scrip he’d seen that night at the Clee.

‘Hubert’s scrip,’ he said softly.

Hempe stole across to him. ‘The cross, the scrip, what more do we need?’

Remembering his idea that there might be more to the scrip, Owen carefully felt every inch of it. He noticed a slight bulge beneath the clasp and slipped his fingers beneath it. He found a tiny pocket, and within – he drew out a gold ring set
with a single ruby. ‘Now this is a beautiful thing. I wonder to whom this belongs?’

‘We’ll ask him,’ Hempe said.

‘Not yet.’ He tucked the ring back in the little pocket.

‘I wonder how he’ll explain this?’

Owen shook his head. Scrip in hand, he stepped out into the alley, and Hempe followed close behind him. The wind kept them silent for a moment.

Turning his back to it, Hempe asked, ‘Now what?’

‘We confront him after the scholars depart for the day.’

Hempe leaned close to be heard. ‘Do you suppose the owner of the ring was another victim? One we have yet to discover?’

‘I intend to find out.’ Even with this evidence in hand, Owen did not feel satisfied. ‘Can you imagine Nicholas Ferriby purchasing poison for a knife? And what of the well-dressed man who argued with Nigel on the riverbank? I found no furred and feathered cap.’

‘He is not what he seems,’ said Hempe. ‘And we do not know that Alice Tanner saw Nigel and his murderer. She might have seen two men unrelated to Nigel’s death.’

Of course that was possible. But Master John had remarked how difficult it would be for anyone to be sure they would not be caught breaking into St Peter’s School – for Master John’s rival to take
that risk seemed so foolhardy as to suggest madness, and Nicholas did not strike Owen as a madman. It also seemed madness to murder two men for a simple gold cross. The ring was almost certainly of greater value.

And Owen very much doubted that it had been in the scrip when Drogo handed it to Geoffrey on the night of his death.

A
quiet afternoon in the shop allowed Lucie time to send Edric into the workshop to prepare more calendula and aloe salve for dry skin and various other cold weather balms that would go quickly now that snow had arrived. She settled on a long bench with Jasper’s cat Crowder who looked as if he had been neglected of late. As she combed his ginger and white fur his purr grew louder, just the sort of cheery sound her spirit needed. Lucie had been sad when Magda departed midday, and as the afternoon wore on her gloomy mood had turned darker with fears of losing the child she carried or giving birth to a sickly, mewling baby over whom she would fuss and fret through its brief life. It was as if she feared that Magda’s departure had deprived her of grace.

She was startled when Crowder suddenly nipped the hand in which she held the comb, his characteristic signal that he’d had quite enough fussing. He jumped down, shook himself, fluffed
his groomed fur, then trotted off into the workshop. Lucie was still smiling and shaking her head at the enormous dignity of cats when a woman entered the shop. Lucie guessed by the ashen colour of her complexion that the woman sought a physick for herself. She was not well-to-do, but proud – though her clothes were drab and patched, the patches were delicately sewn and her wimple was starched.

‘What might I do for you this windy day?’ Lucie asked.

‘I need something to ease my heartache and my fear so that I might sleep. My children need me.’ The woman’s voice shook and she seemed near tears.

Moved by the woman’s apparent suffering, Lucie put her arm around her. The woman allowed herself to be led to the long bench, tears falling.

Lucie settled beside her. ‘For such things it is helpful if you tell me more about this difficulty. You said “heartache”. You have no injury or illness of the body?’

‘No. My Drogo was murdered. Our house was searched. I am so frightened I cannot properly mourn my husband.’

Drogo’s widow. This was not some chance encounter. Lucie took the woman’s cold hands and pressed them between her overheated palms. ‘Now I understand your pain and fear. May God watch over you and your daughters.’

‘Are you Dame Lucie Wilton?’

‘Yes. I don’t know your name.’

‘My name is Cecilia, but Drogo called me “Cissy”.’ She had regained her composure. ‘I know that your husband is searching for my husband’s murderer, and I am grateful. I pray he finds him, and quickly.’ Her eyes moved in jerks and her hands had still not warmed. ‘God bless and keep you and your family, Dame Lucie.’

‘And may he bless and keep you and yours, Dame Cissy.’ Already considering what might be best for the woman, Lucie asked, ‘Are you able to sleep at all?’

Withdrawing her hands, Cissy wiped her tear-streaked cheeks. ‘Since Drogo died I cannot stay asleep for the slightest noise wakes me. Then the devil starts whispering of all the evil that might be brought down on my little family. I have no husband, we have no protector.’

‘Much of your fear will pass when you know that his murderer is found,’ said Lucie. ‘For the nonce you can drink something before sleep that will calm you. How are your daughters?’

Cissy gave a little shrug. ‘They are young and, God forgive me for saying this, but Drogo paid them little heed when he was at home and he frightened them with his temper. Already they forget that we are in mourning.’

‘Perhaps that is best for them,’ said Lucie.

Cissy nodded and tried to smile. ‘They are good girls. I am blessed.’

She was missing a few teeth among what seemed
healthy ones, and there were scars on her face, around her nose and mouth, that Lucie guessed were from beatings.

‘I don’t know why, but the loss of his mother’s ring made me cry more than his murder,’ said the widow. ‘Both his parents died of the plague. Some say that millers are always among the first to go, I don’t know why.’

‘I had not heard you’d been robbed. Does Captain Archer know this?’

Cissy shook her head. ‘It seemed such a small thing beside Drogo’s murder, I did not want to complain of a bauble. If they find the murderer they will find the ring.’

Lucie did not think that was necessarily so. ‘Knowing to look for the ring might help them. When did this happen?’

‘My daughters and I were at St Mary’s for Drogo’s burial service. When I walked into the house it felt strange. I knew someone had been there. Searching. They had tried to put things back, but there were things in odd places. I didn’t notice at first that the ring was gone for I seldom wear it. But it must have been taken that day.’

‘No wonder you have difficulty sleeping,’ said Lucie. She excused herself to tell Edric what to mix for Cissy while they talked. As she returned she was mulling over what the widow had said that might be of use to Owen. She was curious about Drogo’s background. Perhaps it would suggest something to Owen.

‘What mill did Drogo’s parents work?’ she asked.

‘You would not know it – the Gamyll family’s mill near Weston.’

Lucie’s pulse raced at the hope of answers at last. ‘Weston. Are you from there?’

Wiping away tears, Cissy shook her head. ‘I’ve always lived in the city.’

‘How long ago had he lived there?’

‘Years now. I’ve never seen it and we wed eleven years ago.’ She wiped her cheeks again. ‘He’d no family left, nothing from them but the ring. That is why it meant so much to him – and to me.’ She bowed her head and breathed deeply as if to control her tears.

Edric brought a cup of watered wine from the workshop, mouthing to Lucie that he’d put in a pinch of valerian. Confident in his judgement of how much to add, she nodded to him to offer it to Cissy. While the woman sipped, Lucie tried to think what else to ask her. She wondered whether Drogo could have recognised the birthing cross and so kept it.

‘When you realised the ring was gone, did you check to see whether anything else was missing?’

Cissy nodded. ‘I looked through everything. They’d taken a few coins I’d hidden away. Pennies. Nothing else.’

‘Did you find anything that you’d never seen before?’

She frowned at Lucie. ‘No.’ Her eyes were
steady now; the wine was taking effect. ‘My Drogo was no thief, Dame Lucie. I’m sure he kept that lad’s scrip so long because he was away, but he’d always meant to return it. He wanted to teach him not to bother the bargemen, that is all he meant to do.’

‘I do understand that the young scholars irritate the bargemen, Dame Cissy. Did he ever show you a small gold cross, a pendant?’

She shook her head, frowning. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It was a thought, just that. Would you describe the ring for me?’

‘It is a gold ring with a small but pretty ruby. The gold is patterned, like lace around the ruby, and I’ve always worried that I’d bend it. That’s why I didn’t wear it much. It’s not a ring for every day.’

As Cissy relaxed she spoke of Drogo’s frequent travels downriver and back, jobs he seldom knew about until the day he must depart. She knew nothing about who employed him as a pilot or what the boats carried. What he told the children about was Kingston-upon-Hull and the great estuary, especially the water fowl.

‘He painted such pictures with words.’ Cissy looked away, dabbing her eyes. ‘They will miss that, my girls. Then they’ll remember him kindly.’