The Lady Chapel (11 page)

"Blessed Peter, where's the stone?" someone muttered. A woman's voice. "Five hands from the corner, six stones up, they said."

She was close enough now that Jasper could hear her quick breaths. There was a scratching sound. Then something snapped. Jasper jumped at the sound, he was so tense.

"Cheap knife," the intruder muttered. "She's such a miser. Sharpens knives until they're parchment thin--Aha!"

The sound of stone sliding against stone.

Jasper could see her shadow now, as the grayness brightened into a feeble dawn. She faced the wall just beyond Jasper's hiding place, crouching down, pulling at something. A stone, from the sound of it. She had hidden something behind a loose stone, he guessed.

Jasper shivered. He did not wish to witness anything he might be sorry for. He wiggled back from the edge of his hiding place. His stomach growled and he held his breath, certain that the growl had echoed through the minster. But she did not come. Jasper relaxed and began to twist himself around so his pale hair would not stick out and give him away. Then the rags he wore would be mistaken for a pile of mason's rags. But as Jasper moved, he stirred up dust,

and his nose betrayed him with a mighty sneeze, which so surprised him that he bumped his head.

"Who's there?" the woman demanded. She reached in and pulled Jasper from the hole, scraping him along the rock and dumping him on the stones three feet below. She was surprisingly strong. Jasper landed on his right side, his arm and leg bent beneath his weight. The pain left him breathless.

She kicked him. "Little spy!"

"I was sleeping," Jasper cried, terrified. He thought his arm and leg might be broken. He could neither protect himself nor run.

She grabbed him by the cowl of his tunic and dragged him toward the light, then took his head in her hands and studied his face. "Why, it's Jasper de Melton. Well, you've followed me for the last time. He's after you, you know. He plays with you and brags about it. But he's lost track of you. You're a clever one."

Dark eyes, a large mouth, large hands. He could not see much more. Jasper thought he had seen her before, but he could not remember where. "How do you know my name?" he asked.

"Everyone in York knows your name. And outside the city gates, your fame has spread all the way to--" She laughed. "But that would be telling."

Jasper painfully wriggled out of her grasp. She lunged for him, dropping what she'd been clutching in her right hand, a bloody bundle. It fell to the ground. Jasper kicked it away, hoping she would go after it. It rolled out into the rain, the cloth unwinding to reveal a human hand.

Jasper screamed.

The woman pulled a knife from her cloak and raised it above him.

Jasper threw his hands up over his head, shielding himself.

She laughed. "Do not worry, Jasper. The point broke off in the stone, and I've no stomach to poke you to death with a blunt knife." She picked him up by the cowl again. "But from now on I'll carry a sharpened knife with a very good point. And if I hear you've said one word about what you've seen, or describe me to anyone, I will kill you. Or he will." She laughed again.

Jasper knew her now. He remembered that laugh from Corpus Christi Day. The woman who had laughed at Master Crounce.

She dropped him, grabbed up the hand, and stuffed it under her cloak. "Remember," she said, with a glint in her eye that made Jasper think she looked forward to stabbing him. And then she ran out.

Jasper pulled himself up to his knees and said a prayer of thanksgiving for his deliverance. When he tried to stand, a sharp pain ran up his right leg. He clenched his teeth and stood up straight. His right arm hung useless. The pain in his arm was a dull throbbing. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He wanted his mother. He wanted things to be as they once were, his mother waiting for him, Mistress Fletcher yelling at him not to run up the stairs because it gave her a headache. Jasper felt hot tears on his cheeks.

But things were not as they once were. Jasper was alone. The Riverwoman had been right. He had enemies. Master Crounce's murderers. Jasper must disappear. He limped out of the minster.

One of the city bailiffs stomped into the shop, cursing the weather and then apologizing as he noticed Lucie standing at the counter. "Forgive me, Mistress Wilton, but it is a Hellish world out there today, all this rain and wind." He shivered and set a damp pack down on the counter before her. "1 took the liberty of pausing at the York Tavern and asking if Mistress Merchet might come here."

Lucie eyed the leather pack curiously. "What is this about, Geoffrey?"

Bess came bursting in the door. "So you've found a pack under Foss Bridge you want me to identify, eh?"

Geoffrey doffed his cap. "Mistress Merchet, I need you to tell me whether you recognize this pack, and then Mistress Wilton must identify the contents of a pouch within it." Geoffrey nodded to the travel-stained saddle pack on the counter. "It was found under a pile of rocks near Foss Bridge."

Bess touched the damp leather. "May I look inside?"

The bailiff nodded.

Bess opened the flap. Inside was a leather wineskin, empty, a change of clothes, several drawstring pouches, a small account book, a knife and spoon, and a pair of soft, impractical shoes in bright red. "Gilbert Ridley's, no doubt about it," Bess proclaimed.

"See the stone set in the spoon handle? Those shoes. The color of the jerkin." She nodded. "Gilbert Ridley's."

The bailiff looked pleased.

"And I am to identify the contents of which pouch?" Lucie asked.

The bailiff handed her a leather one, greasy with handling. "Take care opening. 'Tis a powder."

Lucie opened it gingerly, sniffed, touched a fingertip to the powder, which was damp from its sojourn under the bridge, touched the powder to her tongue, stood with her eyes closed for a moment, tasting it, sniffed the powder again, poked at it with her finger, feeling the grain, seeing the different colors. "Well," she said when she finally looked at those awaiting the verdict, "this is a dangerous powder. It is a mixture of things, mostly healthy. But then there's the arsenic. Not enough to kill at once, or quickly. It would kill gradually, over a period of time." She tested the weight of the pouch in her palm. "I would guess this quantity would have lasted Ridley more than a fortnight, considering the concentrations of the other ingredients. Or Ridley's victim, I suppose. But if you look at the pouch, it was once much fuller. Twice as much again. So I would say it was his, since he had been in York but two days."

Bess crossed herself. "Lord have mercy, why would anyone have done that to Gilbert Ridley? He was a proud man, but he did no harm."

The bailiff looked uncomfortable. "You say this would kill gradually, Mistress Wilton?"

Lucie nodded. "This would be administered by someone looking for a slow, painful death, not the death that Ridley finally suffered. You said he was ailing, didn't you, Bess?"

"Indeed," Bess said. "Stomach complaint. So bad he had become a shadow of himself."

Lucie nodded. "This 'remedy' would do that over time."

"Then I will deliver this up to you for Captain Archer," the bailiff said, "as the murder of Master Ridley occurred in the Liberty of St. Peter."

Lucie took the pack and set it down on the floor behind the counter.

"And there is something else that will be of interest to the Captain," the bailiff said.

"More?" Lucie said. "Your men have been busy."

"This had naught to do with us, Mistress Wilton. Tis the artisans at the minster. They say Jasper de Melton, the lad who witnessed the first murder, disappeared this morning without his cloak. There was blood and signs of a struggle. They are afraid for him."

"I don't understand," Lucie said. "I thought the boy was missing."

The bailiff nodded. "As did we. Now they say the boy's been taking shelter in the minster now and then, and they've been keeping it secret in memory of his father, who was a carpenter, you see. And this morning the boy's gone. Out into the storm. Without his cloak. I thought the Captain ought to know, Mistress Wilton."

When the bailiff had gone, Lucie stared down at Ridley's pouch of poison, which she turned round and round in her hands. Her eyes were sad.

"What are you thinking, Lucie?" Bess asked, touching one of Lucie's hands to quiet it. "Are you disturbed about the boy? Or that Ridley had two enemies?"

Lucie let the pouch lie, but still she stared down at it. "Both. At first I thought this was a simple matter of robbery. Then I thought perhaps revenge upon a false business partner. But Gilbert Ridley was also being poisoned. Slowly. Ridley had told His Grace that his stomach complaint came on him after Crounce's death. He said his wife made a remedy for him. Something noxious. He said he sometimes thought that his complaint had worsened since he began taking the remedy. But he took it because he knew his wife had his welfare in mind."

Bess studied her friend's face. "And you think the arsenic mixture was that remedy?"

"It is a horrible thing to contemplate, a wife slowly poisoning her husband, no matter the reason. And yet Owen once suspected me of that."

Bess snorted. "I cannot believe Owen suspected any such thing. He thought you might have poisoned Montaigne, and accidentally Fitzwilliam, but not Nicholas--did he?"

"He did, Bess," Lucie said, her voice almost a whisper.

"Well, it all turned out in the end," Bess said lamely.

Lucie smiled up at her friend. "We have yet to be sure, but I think

it turned out, yes. And now I must write all the facts down for Owen. He will be angry about the boy. He told the Archbishop the boy was in danger. I must send a messenger to Beverley with this pack and the letter."

"My groom can take it," Bess said.

Lucie was glad of the offer. "Thank you. 1 trust John to get it there safely."

While Owen put his few things in his bag, Cecilia Ridley paced the room.

When he could ignore her pacing no longer, Owen asked, "What is it?"

She would not look him in the eye. "Could you and your men stay another night?" She glanced up, looked away as if embarrassed. "I keep thinking, if Paul is going to change his mind and come back, it will be today or tonight. So if you could stay that long, in case I need you . . ."

Owen wanted to leave. He missed Lucie and worried that she would be out there in the rain, praying over Wilton's grave. "What about your men? They will be here. Your Steward should be aware of your concern."

Cecilia shook her head. "Jack Cooper? He's no fighting man. None of them are. One night is all I ask. I do not like to ask at all, but it would make such a difference to me."

Owen had to admit that he was rushing with his duty, and besides, it was already midday. At this time of year that meant he would not get far before twilight.

"One more night. We will leave early tomorrow."

"Thank you. I shall not forget your kindness."

"But I will make use of the time," Owen said. "I would like to speak with your Steward."

"Why?"

"He might know something about your husband's business that you do not know."

Cecilia bristled. "Indeed."

"Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you."

"I know. And you might be right. Jack Cooper's house is behind the great hall. At the stream. There's a path beyond the stables. You

will see it. But he may be anywhere on the land at this time of day."

"I will find him."

Owen went out back, past the bake ovens and the building in which the serious cooking was done. He checked in the stables. His horse was groomed and quiet. Three children huddled around a sleeping dog.

Owen found the path and was at the cottage in perhaps fifty strides. Trees would shade it in summer, but now the trees surrounded it like skeletal sentinels. Owen knocked at the door. It was a comfortable-looking cottage with two shuttered windows, one on either side of a door that was fitted well into the doorway and looked to be heavy oak. Ridley had been generous with the quarters for his Steward. Owen knocked again and had turned to leave when the door behind him opened.

A rumpled looking man with a pockmarked face and graying hair stood in the doorway, blinking at the daylight, meager though it was. "Ah. You're the Archbishop's man came last night. I'm Jack Cooper." He held out his hand.

Owen shook it. "I am glad to find you here. I had resigned myself to walking across this entire estate looking for you today."

The man frowned. "Why would you be looking for me?"

"You have heard about Master Ridley's murder?"

"Oh, aye. Terrible thing, that was. Highlanders, I'd bet. No one disliked Master Ridley enough to do that to him."

"May I come in?"

Cooper thought about that, then shrugged. "You're used to better, coming from the great hall, but you're welcome, to be sure. I was having a rest. Stood watch out at the gate last night."

"But my men were there."

Cooper nodded. "I thought we should have some men from the household there, just the same. Master Ridley would have wanted it."

Inside, the house was smoky and warm, a fire burning well in the middle of the room. A pallet was pulled up near the fire. A cup beside it.

Cooper saw Owen's eye take in the scene and was quick to explain, " 'Twas a night for neither man nor beast, Captain Archer. I was chilled through all my clothes and then some. Thought I'd

never stop shivering. Made the fire, stripped out of my wet things, put a hot poker to some spiced wine, and lay down close to the fire as I could get without burning myself."

Owen looked around the large room. The walls were whitewashed to brighten it, there were fresh rushes on the floor. A woman's touches. "Wives are always good at undoing a chill, eh?" Owen said.

"Aye, but Kate's away," Jack said. "Tending her sick mother," he added in a nervous tone.

"Are you recovered enough to talk with me?" Owen asked. "Answer some questions about your late Master?"

"I've warmed up just right. Come." Jack pulled a bench out from the wall and placed it within the fire's light. "Could you drink some ale?"