Face Down among the Winchester Geese (11 page)

"What happened the night she died?"

"I do not remember much,” he admitted. ‘Twas true enough. There were gaps in his memory.

"Who was with you?"

"Several gentlemen began the evening in Lord Robin's chamber. Pendennis. Marsdon. Elliott. Myself.” He did not mention Diego Cordoba, though it occurred to him now that Cordoba might make a convenient scapegoat. His preference was to keep the Spaniard's name out of this, to protect his current endeavor, but if that was not possible—

Susanna's sharp-voiced question interrupted his plotting. “Did you pursue the girl? Chase her through the passages of Whitehall?"

"'Twas a lark. A game. St. Mark's Day that year was a festive occasion and Lora Tylney a saucy baggage. She teased any number of men, offering kisses, hinting at more. I looked for her, as did others, even in the place where she was eventually found dead, the room in which set pieces are stored for royal masques and mummings."

The morning after the revels, when Lora's body was discovered, he'd felt no remorse, no guilt, but now Susanna's silent disapproval made him uncomfortable.

"Did she try to win King Philip's interest?"

"Did the Lady Mary say so?” Here was a new twist.

"She said he had an eye for the ladies."

"You cannot think Philip of Spain murdered Lora Tylney."

"Is he not capable of murder?"

Robert was silent. ‘Twould be marvelous irony to let Philip take the blame. He could not be questioned. Even Susanna would not pursue a king to his own kingdom. But would it be wise to accuse the man who held the key to his own future? Robert's plans remained dependent upon Philip, and upon his son, Don Carlos. He dared not risk such a lie.

"Any man is capable of murder, given the right circumstances,” he said slowly, “but if you think the same person must have murdered Diane, then you cannot suspect King Philip, for most assuredly he is no longer in England."

"Did you bed Lora Tylney?” Susanna asked.

"No. Never."

She stared at him long and hard. “And Diane? Did you spend the night before her death with Diane St. Cyr?"

"You might as well ask me if I killed her."

"Did you?"

"God's teeth, Susanna! Do you not know me better than that?"

"I wonder if I know you at all of late,” she told him. “But I do not believe you killed those women."

"Small comfort,” he muttered.

"Mayhap Sir Walter will remember more than you do."

Robert weighed what Pendennis could tell her against what his old friend might discover of Robert's present business. Certes, she must question Pendennis. ‘Twould keep them both occupied while he implemented his master plan.

"Doubtless you will pay no attention if I forbid it,” he grumbled. “You will go your own way unless I imprison or kill you. ‘Twould be a great temptation, my dear, were I the sort of man who could murder a woman."

"Then I am fortunate you are not,” she said evenly.

"Talk to Pendennis,” he said with a sigh. “I give you leave."

"My thanks, husband.” They both knew she had no need of his permission.

Smiling blandly at her, Robert proposed they sup, for he'd worked up an appetite with this sparring. Over the meal, he decided, he would amuse himself by enumerating Pendennis's flaws. Susanna thought Sir Walter pleasant, even charming, for he took care to present his best face in her company. Robert intended to remind his wife that Pendennis had been a courtier, a soldier, and a spy. He'd killed men in battle.

And he'd been responsible for at least one woman's death.

In spite of Robert's dire hints about his good friend Pendennis, Susanna felt comfortable paying a visit to Blackfriars. Only hours after her husband's early-morning departure from Catte Street, eager to push forward in her investigation, she sought Sir Walter's help.

Shock suffused his features when he opened his door at her knock and recognized her. “Susan—! Lady Appleton! I—"

"—did not expect to see me here.” Susanna finished his sentence for him, then pushed boldly past him into his lodgings. This was a matter best discussed in private.

"I do not—"

"Jennet accompanies me, as you can see.” The younger woman eased inside right behind her mistress. “And Robert approves of my plan to speak with you."

"You mean to look into Mistress St. Cyr's murder, do you not? Are you certain such a course is wise?"

"Need I remind you who solved the murders at Madderly Castle?"

Sir Walter's reluctance remained evident, but a faint smile reached his eyes. Her actions in Gloucestershire had earned him his knighthood. They had worked well together at Madderly Castle, Susanna thought. Ever since then, Sir Waiter had accorded her a respect bordering on reverence. A most flattering circumstance, if occasionally an embarrassment when his praise became effusive. She could almost think he entertained tender feelings for her.

"You are welcome in my humble abode,” Sir Walter said. “May I offer you refreshment?"

Susanna studied his lodgings with great curiosity. A writing table dominated the front room, a clear indication that he worked at home. His chair was box seated, containing storage space. A second table, holding an assortment of edibles and a jug of ale, sat in front of the window. A second chair, this one in the Glastonbury style, had been placed nearby, the food and drink within easy reach. Thus were labor and reward neatly divided.

"We require nothing but information,” Susanna assured him.

Through the door to the inner chamber, she caught sight of a boarded bed on four short legs. A narrow shelf at the head held both candles and books. She was not surprised, given his weakness for fancy clothes, to see that two large presses occupied the remainder of the room.

Sir Walter Pendennis was a tidy soul, she decided, or else he had a woman to pick up after him. As she walked across the floor, the faint scents of marjoram flowers and woodruff leaves came to her from the rushes strewn upon it. More evidence of female influence, she thought. Her own preference was for bay leaves.

"We needs must talk of Lora Tylney.” Without allowing him to object, Susanna launched into an account of all she knew of the three murders, then summarized the conclusions she'd previously shared with Robert.

Sir Walter listened quietly, taking the Glastonbury chair when she declined his gesture offering it to her. Jennet had moved to an unobtrusive post near the door.

"What do you hope to accomplish by looking into the matter further?” Sir Walter asked when Susanna had finished telling her tale. His long fingers toyed with the copper-gilt pommels at the extremities of the arms.

"Justice."

For a moment Sir Walter did not respond. Then he gave a curt nod. “Your theory that the murders were committed by the same person makes sense. ‘Tis clear this person must be stopped. I will help you if I can. What is it you wish to know?"

What he had been like six years earlier. Susanna tried to picture him. Younger. Hungrier. More optimistic. They all had been, back then. In those days, she'd even believed she and Robert could still make a successful partnership out of their arranged marriage.

She opted to ask simple questions first. She had a goodly number of them. Once supper had been served the previous evening, she'd learned little more from Robert. He'd devoted himself to blackening Sir Walter's reputation, as if Susanna did not know full well that soldiers killed men in battle. If Sir Walter had, so had Robert, for they'd fought side by side at Saint-Quentin. As for Robert's dark hints of a tragedy concerning a woman in Sir Walter's past, Susanna told herself she was content to leave solving that mystery for another day.

"I would learn as much as I can about the death of Lora Tylney,” she informed him. “She seems to have been the earliest victim. Can you tell me what was done at the time to find her killer?"

"All that was possible, I do assure you. No one saw anything that was helpful to the authorities."

"And the men searching for her the night she died?"

"Never found her."

"How can you be certain? ‘Tis obvious someone did."

"Elliott confessed afterward that he misled us. For pity's sake, he said. When we gave up our search she was safely hidden inside a pageant wagon."

Susanna crossed the small distance between him.

"Francis Elliott?"

"Aye.” Sir Walter's gaze held a question. “You knew he was there. You just told me that you did."

"Yes.” And Robert had mentioned that Elliott had escorted Diane to the inn in Southwark where she'd spent the last night of her life. “Are you saying Elliott knew where Lora was? That he could have found her?"

Sir Walter frowned.” ‘Twas six years ago. I cannot remember every detail, but as I recall it, Elliott thought to play the gentleman. He saw some movement, a shadow inside a canvas tower. All the while we searched for her, she was concealed by naught but the thin walls and a lightweight frame."

"She must have been terrified."

"She was no innocent."

"Nor was she a common woman. She was a chamberer to Queen Mary. A gentlewoman by birth."

And Susanna doubted she'd wished to lie with more than one man that night. What woman would?

Walter said quietly, “I do much regret mine actions that night. I am certain the others do also, especially Cordoba."

Cordoba again. How strange that Robert had made no mention of the Spaniard. Then again, he had not said anything either about Francis Elliott helping Lora elude her pursuers.

Robert had chosen to leave out certain segments of the story. Why should he do so? And why those particular pieces of the puzzle? Sheer perversity, mayhap. He did relish any chance to thwart her.

"Tell me more of these two men, Sir Walter. Elliott and Cordoba. Their background. What they look like."

"Elliott hails from Bermondsey, just south of here. His father was naught but a clerk to the Master of Revels, but he rose to favor during King Edward's brief reign. The golden lad, we called him, for the color of his hair and his luck with women. The ladies seem to like his looks."

"And Cordoba?"

"I know nothing of his family. In appearance he was typical of his nationality. Dark. Swarthy. Several years before I knew him, he'd lost an eye while jousting in a tournament at the Spanish court. He always wore an eye patch, but the remaining eye seemed to see all the more. And, as if to compensate, his hearing was almost preternaturally acute, at least when he was sober.

Robert's omission of the Spaniard from his account continued to bother Susanna, but she considered lack of information a challenge. “What reason had Diego Cordoba for being at court?"

"I recall little more than that he was part of King Philip's retinue."

"What had he to do with the rest of you?” Robert, Sir Walter, Peregrine Marsdon, and Francis Elliott all had ties to the duke of Northumberland's household and to Lord Robin Dudley.

Sir Waiter shifted uneasily in his chair and would no longer meet her eyes. “Cordoba was of an age with the rest of us. And good company, for all he was a Spaniard. We first met when he came to England for the marriage of his lord and our queen. That was July in the year of our Lord 1554."

"And?” Susanna moved closer and stood staring down at him, certain there was more, something he was reluctant to share with her.

"Until shortly before her death, Lora was Cordoba's mistress."

Sir Walter was still holding back, but the bone he offered distracted Susanna. If Cordoba and Lora had been lovers, then why had he been part of what Robert had called a game? Some peculiar form of vengeance against an unfaithful leman?

"Did Cordoba continue to search for her after the rest gave up?"

"I do not know.” Sir Walter's brow was furrowed now. “You must forgive me, but my memory is sketchy."

A weak excuse, she thought. And possibly a lie. As an intelligence gatherer, Sir Walter had been trained to retain the smallest details, since one could never tell what trivial thing might become important, and to conceal his thoughts when the need arose.

Robert, too, was good at hiding behind a blank expression. When he kept hold of his temper, he could tell lies with great conviction. Susanna had sometimes wondered if he did not manage to convince even himself that he told the truth. ‘Twas a convenient skill for a spy ... or a murderer.

Standing, Sir Walter walked to the window to stare down at what had once been the monks’ cloister. “We had drunk a great deal before we began our search for Lora and consumed considerably more after, back in Lord Robin's lodgings."

"What happened to Senor Cordoba? Did he remain in England?"

Sir Walter hesitated. “I do not know where he is."

"Can you find out?” She came up beside him and placed one hand on his sleeve.

"I will try."

"And Francis Elliott? Where is he these days?"

"At court. He has a minor position under the Master of the Queen's Horse.''

Another connection to Lord Robin. “Can you arrange a meeting for me with Master Elliott?"

"If you insist.” He gazed down into her face, his expression somber. “I wish you would not involve yourself further in this matter. You do not know what evil you may stir up."

"I am in no danger.” She forced a smile. “I am much too tall."

"This is not a matter suited to jesting,” he chastised her.

She sobered instantly. “No. It is not, but it does seem he kills only small, fragile women. I wonder why? Is it easier? Does he dislike the type?"

A flicker of something, perhaps pain, crossed Sir Walter's face before he gave a short laugh and an opinion. “Another sort of woman would be a more sensible choice, for the sheer number of them available. A tall lass, with a porcelain pallor and coltlike features, and perhaps red-gold hair, natural or otherwise, in imitation of the queen."

"Have you known one such and thought to murder her?” The words were out before Susanna could stop them, but she was not sorry she'd asked. And she was not afraid. Jennet's silent presence was her protection.

"I knew one such.” Sir Walter's voice contained no emotion, his eyes no light. He seemed to look inside himself rather than at her. “She died by her own hand."