Face Down among the Winchester Geese (12 page)

With a visible effort, he shook off melancholic memories and produced a faint, apologetic smile. “I meant only to describe the typical Englishwoman."

Susanna accepted his desire to say no more of the woman in his past and pursued the change in subject. “Are all nationalities so clearly defined?” She remembered what Petronella had said concerning her patrons’ preference for foreign women ... or those they thought had been born on the Continent.

"The typical Spanish lass is full-bodied and olive skinned. Lora and Diane, with dark hair and fair skin, might have Irish blood in their veins. The average Frenchwoman—"

"Stop, I implore you. No more. And we digress. I do not believe the murderer killed Lora and Diane because he thought they were Irish. Neither do I believe I need fear for my own safety. Given my form and features, I am as likely to have poetry written to me as I am to be murdered by the man I seek."

"We digress indeed.” He sighed. “But think a moment, my dear Lady Appleton. If you are correct that one man killed three women, and perhaps more, then you place yourself in danger, no matter your appearance, simply because you attempt to track him down. To protect himself, such a man is capable of striking out at anyone at any time."

"He must be stopped. Surely you see that?"

"I see a woman who needs must be protected from herself. I beg you, do not concern yourself further with this matter. Let me investigate. Or leave it to your good husband."

Let them cover up murder? Susanna smiled sweetly but she had no intention of allowing either man to dictate to her. “I understand you may have reasons for not wanting to create a stir about Diane's death.” The woman had been French, and involved in treason in that country. “But that is no reason not to look into what happened in the past."

He sighed again. “Ah, you will go your own way, no matter what I advise."

"You can help me. You have already said you could arrange a meeting with Master Elliott."

"Will you at least promise to allow me to be present when you talk to him? Or have Sir Robert with you? I do not believe any of my old friends are guilty of murder, but I failed to protect you in the past. I will not be so careless of you a second time."

"I agree we must suspect everyone,” she conceded. “And I will not meet with anyone alone."

It did no good to remind him he'd done all he could that time in Gloucestershire, when she had put her own life at risk to catch a killer.

After Sir Walter had escorted her home and left her at her door, Susanna went over their conversation in her mind. He was right. She must be careful. And she must consider everyone a suspect, even Sir Walter.

Even Robert.

It was as well, she decided, that she'd kept one thing back from both of them. They were aware she'd talked to the Lady Mary, but neither knew she'd been in contact with Petronella.

On the north side of Aldgate Street, just outside the city wall and beyond the churchyard of St. Botolph, stood the Crowne, a hostelry operated by a respectable two-time widow. It answered all Robert's needs. A heated private chamber. Stabling for Vanguard. A cook who knew his spices. And little chance of being recognized, especially if one arrived disguised.

Diego Cordoba appeared at the appointed hour, cloaked and hooded to hide the fact that he lacked an eye. He came directly to the upper chamber Robert occupied, one he had used on previous occasions for assignations with his last long-term mistress, the delightful Eleanor. From time to time he wondered what had become of her. She'd been gone from London when he returned from Spain. He had not tried to locate her. A mistress, after all, was easy to replace.

"Why so much secrecy?” Cordoba demanded, throwing off his cloak. “Notes delivered by street urchins. Coded messages. You have gone willingly enough to the ambassador's residence ere now, and there is an adequate tavern just across the Strand from the embassy."

"The Chequers? That place is a hotbed of political and social gossip.” Robert poured two mugs of ale and offered one of the green, lead-glazed, earthenware vessels to his guest.

Cordoba accepted it but did not drink. “You are of a sudden skittish, Appleton. Why? Because of your diplomatic mission to Spain last year, ‘tis easy enough to explain away any visit to Spanish territory."

"Not to anyone who knows the results of that venture.” He'd been sent to Zafra, in Estremadura, to treat with a number of Englishmen and women who'd left England after Queen Mary's death. They'd accompanied her former maid of honor, Jane Dormer, now the wife of the count of Feria. None had been interested in his offer on Queen Elizabeth's behalf, but the proposal he had made on his own had met with greater success.

"You are overcautious,” Cordoba complained.

"And you are not?” When King Philip left England for the last time, Cordoba had secretly stayed behind. It was remarkable, Robert mused, that he had succeeded so well in blending with the English. Cordoba should have been easily identified, not only by his eye patch, but by his swarthy Spaniard's complexion and his faint accent, and yet no one in the queen's government seemed to have the least idea what he had been up to. He'd traveled from one end of England to the other, sometimes passing for a Gypsy, at others disguised as a merchant who'd spent time in sunnier climes. Lately, using the name Ruy Vierra, Cordoba had openly joined the household of Ambassador de Quadra.

"To caution?” Cordoba proposed the toast, his voice mocking as he raised his mug.

They went through an elaborate ritual, drinking the ale, watching each other for any sign of weakness. Cordoba was no fool. He knew this clandestine meeting meant something had gone awry in their plan for the English succession.

"Your name, your real name, has come up in connection with a matter that has the attention of Sir Walter Pendennis. Does he suspect you are in England?"

Cordoba understood Pendennis's key position in the ranks of England's intelligence gatherers. “I have not seen Pendennis since Mary was queen."

An evasive answer, Robert thought, but the best he was likely to get. “Do any of your present acquaintance know you as Diego Cordoba?"

"Who but your own good self would be in a position to recognize me?” Cordoba smiled, but there was no humor in the expression.

"I do not want your real identity to become known any more than you do, but we may have no choice in the matter. Our entire scheme is in danger because my wife interests herself in the murder of a woman in Southwark. Not only has she made a connection between that death and the killing of Lora Tylney, coming to the conclusion that since both women were killed on St. Mark's Day, they were the victims of the same villain, but by sheer ill luck one of the persons she questioned about events six years ago was the Lady Mary Grey."

Robert took a long swallow of ale. Cordoba set his mug aside. “Can you not control your own wife?” Cordoba's contempt was the only emotion he showed. “Order her to desist."

"That would do naught but call more attention to both of us. And Lady Appleton is nothing if not tenacious. She may ferret out other secrets in this effort to bring a murderer to justice, unless she solves the crimes in a timely manner. I propose to help her do so."

"You know who killed Lora?"

"I neither know nor care who killed either of these women, but it occurs to me that if you leave England and it then becomes known you were living here under an alias, suspicion will fall on you.” Once Cordoba was safely away, Robert would reveal that Cordoba and Vierra were the same man, a most suspicious circumstance.

Cordoba's face suffused with rage, he advanced on Robert, one hand on the pommel of his dagger. “You accuse me of murder?"

On his guard in an instant, his reflexes born of long years of uncertainty as to who was an enemy and who was a friend, Robert met the attack with sharp words and an even sharper sword. “For the greater good, this step is necessary.” He held his weapon at the ready.

"You insult my honor."

"I offer a way out of an untenable situation. Now that Pendennis is interested in the murders, he will eventually uncover your presence in England.” Or Susanna might do so on her own. He'd learned not to underestimate her. “All we've worked for, all we've planned, will be at risk if that happens."

Cordoba's hand left the dagger to reach for the earthenware mug he'd abandoned. He drank long and deep, then threw the drinking vessel across the room to shatter against the wall. Green shards tumbled to the rushes covering the hardwood floor. The dregs of the ale, adhering to the plaster, dripped into an ugly stain.

"We have no choice.” Robert's temper simmered, though he maintained a reasonable tone of voice. In truth, it would be simpler to accomplish the tasks that remained on his own. He might even use Susanna's new acquaintance with the Lady Mary to lure the queen's cousin away from court and into his clutches.

"How long?” Cordoba asked. “How long until the queen leaves Whitehall?"

Their plan was to snatch the Lady Mary then, when her absence would go unnoticed for some time in the confusion of a move from one royal palace to another.

"The queen is fickle, always changing her mind about when she will journey where, but I hold myself ready to act at a moment's notice."

At the same time, he had taken care to protect himself. Susanna's presence in London would help deflect suspicion during the first crucial hours of the operation.

"I should be here,” Cordoba argued. “You will need help to subdue her."

"I will use my man Fulke, if need be. And you can be of as much use, perhaps more, coordinating the meeting between Don Carlos and his bride."

Neither of them said anything for a moment, both contemplating the end result of their scheme. King Philip's only son, Don Carlos, was not a husband Robert would have wished on anyone, but all he needed to do was father a son on the Lady Mary, a son who would then be heir to both England and Spain. King Philip himself had approved the mating of the heiress to the English throne, dwarflike though she was, and his demented son.

"Others will bring Don Carlos,” Cordoba said.

Robert laughed aloud. “Do you doubt your ability to handle him?"

Always physically undersized and afflicted with a speech impediment, a fall headlong down a staircase had left Carlos partially paralyzed and blind. To relieve the paralysis, an Italian surgeon had cut a triangular piece out of his skull. Ever since, the prince had suffered from fits of uncontrollable rage.

"Never doubt my abilities,” Cordoba said softly, “but it is my reputation you plan to sully."

"There is no other way. If we succeed in this, we will both be well rewarded in Spain. A title and lands should make up for any rumors that linger behind in England.” Certes, they'd cure Robert himself of any regrets! “Here is how I mean to proceed. I will recall, upon having been reminded of our old acquaintance, that I recently saw a fellow much like you at Durham House. A few careful questions will reveal Cordoba and Vierra to be one and the same. Then we need only place you in Southwark when this latest murder took place."

"Why not say you were the one to see me there as well?” Irony tinged the suggestion.

Robert frowned. “Better to bribe someone to describe you. Eye patches are not uncommon, but still something a man notices. Pendennis will seek you, find that you have fled, and that will seem to settle your guilt."

"And if I do not leave?"

"You will be found. You will be charged with homicide. Pendennis will dig deeper. King Philip will never acknowledge that you acted with his knowledge and consent. As a spy, as well as a murderer, you will be executed."

"I might, in turn, reveal your activities."

"And for that reason, I have gone to great pains to warn you.” Why could the fellow not see reason?

With an abruptness that caught Robert by surprise, Cordoba acceded to his wishes. “By this evening,” he promised, “I will seem to have vanished into thin air."

"Then when we meet again, it will be on Spanish soil."

His movements brisk, Cordoba gathered up his cloak and stalked to the door, pausing there to look back over his shoulder. “I wonder,” he mused, “how many small, dark-haired, pale-faced girls abide in Spain? And how safe they will be in years to come?"

As Petronella entered the area known as Duke Humphrey's Rents, near Puddle Dock, she sensed someone watching her. She tried to convince herself ‘twas imagination. She was in an area of the city strange to her, and a woman alone, but her uneasiness increased until she found the place she sought.

The house was not whitewashed, as brothels were in Southwark, but it had a distinctive hatch door set with metal spikes to discourage sudden intruders. Petronella's old friend Isabel, a buxom, fair-haired courtesan, welcomed her with pippin pie and wine.

"You need not be so extravagant,” Petronella chided her, knowing full well that what cost fourpence in the market went for eighteen or twenty in a whorehouse.

"'Tis already paid for,” Isabel assured her, “by a generous admirer, a fripperer in Houndsditch.” She giggled. “He seeks to fatten me up. Likes meat on bones, he says."

"You have been here for some time.” Long before Petronella took her first customer, Isabel had worked at the Sign of the Smock. If she was now accepting special favors from a secondhand clothes dealer, ‘twas a signal she soon meant to leave the business and marry the man.

"Aye,” Isabel agreed, “and this is the first visit you've ever paid me. Why did you come, lovey? Not to talk about old times, that's certain.” They'd last seen each other when Long Nell died. All Nell's girls, past and present, had turned out to bury her in the single women's churchyard, for she'd been much loved.

Sugarcoating served no purpose. Petronella dished out the few facts she had, though she kept Lady Appleton's name to herself, then added a question. “Is there any reason for folk hereabout to remember a murder on any St. Mark's Day?"

"Aye. There is, though I'd not have given it another thought if you'd not told me about the others. ‘Twas in the second spring of this reign. That very day did the queen's grace sup at Baynard's Castle. There were torches everywhere in the streets hereabout, cresset lamps on poles, filled with burning oiled rags so they could be carried in procession later, for after supper her grace was rowed up and down the Thames with a hundred boats about her and trumpets and drums and flutes and guns, and fireworks till ten at night. When her grace departed, all at waterside stood, a thousand people strong.” Isabel gave a little sigh of delight, remembering. Doubtless the pageantry had been good for business, too.