The Lady Chapel (19 page)

"And yet no one officially spoke to Will Crounce about his behavior with Mistress Ridley, another guild member's wife?"

Stanton looked uncomfortable. "Will was never caught in the act, you see. And there was Mistress de Melton. It looked as if Will meant to reform his ways." Stanton shrugged. "Then again, it might be just gossip. And I've insulted the dead." He crossed himself.

Owen noted the man's discomfort and let the topic drop. "Did you ever meet a business partner of Crounce's by the name of Martin Wirthir?"

Stanton screwed up his face, thinking, then shook his head. "Name means naught to me." He looked eagerly at Owen. "Might he be the murderer, then? This Martin Wirthir?"

Owen shook his head. "If he were, he would be a fool and easy to find. What do you know about Ridley? Did he have any enemies?"

Stanton sat back and chuckled. "He was a brusque man, Captain Archer. And impressed with himself. God help me, but many a time I wished to put my fist through Ridley's teeth."

"Would you have killed him?"

"Nay!" The merchant straightened up and pulled at his sleeves. "I would never kill any man except to protect my family. Though I play a Bad Soul in the pageant, I am not a violent man."

Owen wondered whether Stanton appreciated how fortunate he was to be able to choose peace over violence. No one had ever ordered Stanton into battle. "Do you think any of the more violent guild members could have been driven to kill Ridley?"

Stanton shook his head.

"So Ridley was irritating, pompous, but not the sort of hateful that gets a man murdered?"

"Right," said Stanton. "And he was away so much, no one had to put up with him for long."

"Oh!" The guild clerk raised an ink-stained finger and his eyes widened as a memory interrupted his copy work. Should he go after the Captain and tell him? It seemed a small point, but there might be something to it. Perhaps on his way home he would stop at the apothecary. He could use a soothing wash for his eyes. They were giving him trouble lately. So tired.

Owen had just returned and wearily stretched his frozen toes toward the fire. "Has your mistress been busy all day?" he asked Tildy.

"Oh, aye."

"I will work in the shop tomorrow so she can catch up on other things."

"That would be nice, Captain. The horseradish root has dried, and we should put it up."

The beaded curtain rattled as Lucie came through. "There's a man here to see you, Owen."

Owen groaned. "Who is it?"

"A clerk, from the ink on his fingers. He says he spoke with you this afternoon."

"Oh, that clerk." Owen rose and stretched, feeling his shoulder muscles crinkle. Questioning people was no work for a man. It crippled the body. He went out to the shop.

"Captain Archer." The clerk smiled. He wore a cloak of fine wool, but well worn. A castoff from one of the guild members, Owen guessed. "I thought of something after you'd gone," the clerk said, "maybe nothing of importance, but as I needed something to soothe my eyes, I thought I'd come by and see you."

"What's the trouble with the eyes?"

"By vespers I do not see so clearly."

"You use your eyes in close work and little light all day, Master Clerk. It is a common complaint amongst such as yourself. Mistress Wilton has a soothing wash. A flask is a halfpenny."

The clerk nodded. "I'm willing to try it. And to tell you this, what I remembered when you'd gone. There was a man who sometimes

came on business for Masters Crounce or Ridley. His speech was much like that of the Flemish weavers. He did not come often, and not lately. But here's something else. 1 once needed to send something on to him, and he directed it to the lodgings of Ambrose Coats, one of the Town Waits. I was to say it was for 'the foreigner.' "

Coats. Lucie had told Owen about the musician's visit. And what was now buried in the garden. "Ambrose Coats? Are you certain?"

The clerk nodded. "He plays the rebec and the crowd. You might say he's a bowman, like yourself." The clerk laughed at his joke.

"He is a friend of Martin Wirthir?"

The clerk got serious again. "A friend? That 1 cannot say. I do not even know if Coats would remember aught about the foreigner--he may have stayed there the once only--but it might be worth a visit."

"I thank you." Owen handed the clerk a small clay bottle. "1 must enter your name in the ledger, Master Clerk. Mistress Wilton is keen on records."

"I am John Fortescue," the clerk said, and spelled it for Owen. "I'll wager you're thinking it does not fit, eh?" He grinned.

Owen made an apologetic face. "You sound a Yorkshireman through and through."

"Oh, I am, Captain, through and through for many generations. But long ago my people came with William the Bastard, and though we are a poor branch, we carry the name with pride."

"So your ancestors built the castles of York?"

"Aye, they did so, Captain. They did so."

Owen thanked Fortescue again, and the clerk left a little taller for pride.

"An odd man," Lucie commented when she returned to help Owen close up for the day.

Owen was thoughtful. "He puts me in mind of Potter Digby."

"Oh, no, never!" Lucie had never liked the Summoner, no matter how helpful he had been to Owen. "This man was clean and looked honest. What can you possibly see of Digby in him?"

Owen shrugged. "I cannot say. Just a feeling he brings with him. Of gleeful conspiracy."

Lucie raised an eyebrow. "I am not certain I would find that pleasant."

"He is pleasant, so I am saying it poorly, as usual."

"You have a honeyed tongue," Lucie said. "It's my own lack of humor that is the problem."

"Do you know what he came to tell me? That a foreigner who worked for Crounce and Ridley--Martin Wirthir, I'm guessing-- stayed at least once with a Town Wait named Ambrose Coats."

"Sweet Jesu. So the hand was left for Martin Wirthir as a warning, just as it was for Gilbert Ridley?"

"Perhaps. And perhaps the musician's friend was not Wirthir. There are other foreigners in York. I shall go talk with Coats tomorrow morning, before I open the shop."

"You are opening the shop? What will His Grace say about that?"

"Thoresby is off to Windsor for Christmas. Besides, I owe you some time in there, I should think. I am your apprentice, after all."

Lucie's hug and smile made Owen feel well rewarded.

He rose. "I'll go meet Jasper now."

Lucie stayed him with a hand on his arm. "Would you just greet Jasper at first, welcome him, ask no questions for a day or two? He's been through so much, I want him to feel welcome and safe."

It was difficult to agree when Owen wanted so much to describe Kate Cooper to the boy and see whether she had been the cloaked woman, but Owen saw the concern in Lucie's eyes. "Whatever you think best. I will wait until you give me leave to question him."

When Lucie kissed him, Owen was glad of his forbearance. He would wait till Hell froze over to question the boy if it made Lucie so affectionate.

13/ Liaisons

Ambrose Coats' s address was Footless Lane, across from St. Leonard's Hospital. Not enticing. Owen set out after fortifying himself with some ale and bread to see whether Ambrose Coats remembered Martin Wirthir.

"You don't know that he will be awake at dawn," Lucie warned. "A musician might well sleep late if he performed last night."

"Let's hope he is a reasonable man so that I can keep my promise to you to open the shop."

The house was part of a row, this one distinguished by a large orange tabby wailing at the door. A slender man with dark blond curls opened the door just as Owen lifted his hand to knock. The blond smiled down at the cat and let it glide into the house, then glanced up. "Forgive Merlin, sir. It is his nature to become hysterical when his routine is broken. I am late opening the door for him." He smiled apologetically, but as he studied Owen's face his expression changed. "Captain Archer?" There was a tension in his voice and face that had not been there a moment ago.

Owen silently cursed his scarred face that put people on guard. "You must be Ambrose Coats, Town Wait?"

The man nodded. "I am." He stepped aside. "Please, Captain, come in. The least I can do is offer you hospitality after leaving that horrible thing with Mistress Wilton."

"I am surprised you know me, not being down at the butts on Sundays," Owen said as he entered the small house. As a Town Wait, Ambrose was not required to practice the longbow, but to save his hands for his music.

"You are a noticeable man " Ambrose said.

Owen reached up to the patch. "Aye, that I am."

Ambrose smiled. "It adds a suggestion of danger in an already-arresting face."

Owen did not know how to respond to that. If the words had been spoken by a woman, he would have turned on his charm. But what could Ambrose Coats mean by such a remark?

Ambrose Coats's large, deep-green eyes watched Owen nervously. "Please, sit down." Ambrose pulled the one chair in the room up to a brazier. "Would you share my morning ale with me?"

"If you're offering." Owen sat down.

Ambrose poured two cups of ale and pulled up a stool. "I told Mistress Wilton what I could about the hand. I don't know what else I can tell you."

"A neighbor's pig left it on your doorstep--is that what you think?"

"I cannot imagine how else it got there."

"I can. I was told you might help me find someone. But I think someone else has discovered that he is a friend of yours, too."

"Find someone? A musician? For a gathering?"

"No. I need to tell this person he may be in danger."

Ambrose sat up even straighter than before. "And who might this person be?"

"Martin Wirthir."

The chin clenched and looked more prominent than ever.

"You do know him?" The man's expression made it clear that he did.

The musician thought about it, then shrugged. "I know Wirthir. But I have not seen him for a long time. So perhaps that is why he does not come, because he is in danger?"

Ambrose Coats was clever. Quick. "I doubt that Wirthir knows of his danger if he has not been in York of late," said Owen. "But it is important to get the message to him."

"He was never one to announce his visits. Perhaps you could tell me what this is about, and if he shows up . . ."

"Your friend worked for Will Crounce and Gilbert Ridley, did you know that?"

"I know nothing of his business."

"But you recognize the names, and you knew that Gilbert Rid-

ley's hand was still missing. Do you also know that Will Crounce's hand was left with Ridley? As a warning that he was next, it seems. So now Gilbert Ridley's hand is left with Martin Wirthir."

Ambrose fidgeted on the stool. "This is not Martin's home."

Owen shrugged. "Crounce's hand was not left at Ridley's home, but in his room at the York Tavern. I understand Martin Wirthir has stayed here. ..."

"What do you want?"

"To speak with Wirthir. Tell him about the danger. Ask him what business deal might have spawned such grisly deaths."

"Who are you working for?"

"The Archbishop."

The green eyes widened. "Truly."

"The murders occurred in the minster liberty."

"So they did. And you think someone knew Martin once stayed here and left the hand on my doorstep to warn Martin?"

"It seems likely. Do you have a better explanation of the odd coincidence of the three being business partners?"

"As I said, I did not know Martin worked with those men. How can I be certain that the Archbishop doesn't want to accuse Martin of the murders?"

"It would be a foolish murderer who would leave that hand to be discovered," Owen said. "From what I have heard of his activities, Wirthir is no fool."

Ambrose played with the cup in his hands. "There was a boy who had witnessed one of the murders, wasn't there? Whatever happened to him?" He kept his eyes down, his voice quiet, but Owen could tell it was not an idle question, that Ambrose was anxious for an answer.

"You must mean Jasper de Melton. I'm afraid he's disappeared. Poor boy. I'm sure he's in danger. Why do you ask?"

Ambrose took a drink. "I wondered. He's disappeared, you say? Someone should have watched out for the boy." The green eyes looked sad.

"I urged His Grace to do something to protect the boy, but he thought it unnecessary." Owen drained his cup. "Well, I shall keep you no longer. Please send word if you see your friend." He walked

to the door, then turned back. "There is one favor you might grant me."

"What is that?"

"You could tell me what Martin Wirthir looks like."

Ambrose shrugged. "1 can see no harm in it. Tall, straight-backed, Devil in his eye." He cocked his head to one side, studying Owen. "Dark hair. Like yours, only straight." He shook his head. "No, lighter hair than yours. But dark. Lovely, deep voice. You will not find him if he does not wish to be found."

"1 can but try." Owen opened the door, paused. "I wonder. If your neighbor's pig bothers you so much, why have you not complained to the council?"

Ambrose met Owen's eye, did not flinch. A defiant look. "There is no point in starting a feud with a neighbor."

Owen studied the man. Lucie was right. There were things Ambrose did not say. And yet Owen had the feeling that what he did say was true. "How did you come to befriend Wirthir, a foreigner?"

Ambrose reddened. "1 meet all sorts of people in my work, Captain Archer. Martin is a delightful man, he needed a place to stay." The musician shrugged.

Owen believed it, as far as it went. But there was much more to it, he was sure.

As he walked back to the shop, Owen mulled it over. Protective, like his comrades-in-arms had been of each other. But Wirthir was a pirate, Coats a Town Wait. What was their bond?

Lucie scrubbed horseradish roots and handed them to Tildy to grind. The pungent root had Lucie wiping her eyes every few minutes, but Tildy hardly seemed to notice. She frowned over her work and muttered to herself.

"What's troubling you?" Lucie asked when she could ignore the behavior no longer.