Face Down among the Winchester Geese (20 page)

How much of her purpose in going to Bermondsey did Francis Elliott guess? Had the old man sent his son for the electuary she'd promised, or was that just an excuse for him to come here? Aloud, she asked only, “How is your father's health?"

"Much the same as when you spoke with him, Lady Appleton."

She gestured toward a small stone bench shaded by the garden's only tree. Apple blossoms had come and gone, but there did not appear to be great promise of fruit. “I have been away, Master Elliott, obliged to oversee a domestic matter at Leigh Abbey."

"I am told you have a most excellent stillroom there.” Elliott's smile charmed her. He seemed neither angered nor worried by the knowledge she'd been poking around in his personal life. That might mean he had nothing to hide. Or that he, like others who had served the duke of Northumberland, had learned to be very good at concealing his true feelings.

"Did Robert say so?” she asked, stalling for time while she tried to read him.

He shook his head, his smile a little more broad. “Walter Pendennis. He is most impressed by everything about you, Lady Appleton. He believes you are a clever woman, having compiled two herbals, and admires that quality in a female."

"And you, Master Elliott? Do you find the workings of my mind appealing or appalling?” She framed the question in a way that he might take as teasing, even flirtatious, but she was interested indeed to hear his answer.

Her curiosity was doomed to remain unsatisfied.

The cat chose that moment to leap onto the bench between them, demanding attention.

Elliott chuckled and reached out, allowing Ginger to sniff his fingers before he rewarded her with a scratch behind the ears. He seemed relaxed, as if he had not a care in the world beyond stroking her cat.

Indeed, man and cat appeared to have much in common as they shifted to absorb more of the daylight Master Elliott extended his long legs in front of him and rested his shoulders and the back of his head against the apple tree. Ginger, on his lap now, began to purr. Master Elliott's eyelids drifted down as if he, too, might consider curling up to nap in the sun.

Susanna cleared her throat. “This electuary gently purges the belly and doth comfort the stomach and aid digestion."

"Most excellent medicine. Will he complain about the taste?"

"The ingredients are made into a fine powder and mixed with honey. ‘Tis not unpalatable."

"But medicine ought to taste bad,” Elliott said with a grin. “Ah, I have it. I will take him your soothing nostrum but also gift him with a copy of your cautionary herbal. That should torment him sufficiently. He will find it passing difficult to trust a woman who knows hundreds of poisons."

"You must do as you will,” Susanna told him. “He is your father.” She meant the words as both reminder and reproach, but Elliott only grinned more widely.

For a moment they shared a silence broken only by the purring of the cat

"Why are you still asking questions?"

"I am not satisfied with the answers I've heard so far. It is convenient to blame the Spaniard, but if he is not guilty then another young Englishwoman will die in less than a year.

Elliott's eyes opened fully at that statement and he sat up straight, dislodging the cat With a feline huff, Ginger leapt to the ground and stalked off. “How can you be so certain? The death of three women on the same day of the year does, I grant you, seem an unlikely coincidence, but—"

"Seven women."

"W-what?” He seemed taken aback. “Who? I ... I—” He broke off and drew in a steadying breath. “You astound me, Lady Appleton. Your husband told me only of a possible connection between Lora Tylney and the beautiful Diane and some Southwark doxy."

In a crisp, no-nonsense manner, Susanna enumerated all the victims and the places of their deaths.

"But why think any of us at court when Lora was killed had aught to do with these other murders?"

"Because all these victims were similar to her in appearance. When she was killed, a number of men were questioned most closely about her demise. Most of those men could have killed each of the other women. Even you, Master Elliott, for all that your father says you spent the night before Diane's death in his house in Bermondsey."

He smiled at that, a wry expression containing little humor. “Had you told him what you suspected, no doubt he'd have lied and said I was never there. You'll have noticed there is little love lost between us, Lady Appleton."

"You might have crept out of your father's house before dawn,” she informed him, though she smiled back to soften the words, “and returned again to break your fast with him none the wiser."

"What an imagination you have, Lady Appleton."

"I do but try to keep an open mind."

"So, you suspect Pendennis and myself and the Spaniard and your own husband."

"And Lord Robin. And Peregrine Marsdon."

"And Lord Robin.” His voice was solemn, but his expression mocked her.

"Seven women have been murdered,” she reminded him, struggling to contain her growing irritation at his attitude.

"Four of them prostitutes."

"Does that make their deaths less important?"

For a moment he did not reply. Then he said, “Gentlewomen are not supposed to know of such things."

The intent behind his mild words was difficult to gauge. A man might speak so if he sought to soothe a fractious child. On the other hand, this might be another attempt to tease her, to charm her out of what must seem to him the wayward notion she could discover a killer's identity. He did not, after all, know her very well.

Now it was her turn to remain silent and think. From the street beyond the gate came the sounds of London. Susanna had grown accustomed to most of them now and scarce heard the churchbells or the hawkers’ cries. She concentrated on the man beside her. For all that Master Elliott seemed to lack respect for her reasoning, he might prove a useful sounding board. He presented no threat to her person even if, as seemed unlikely given his father's testimony, he was the murderer she sought. Lionel was nearby. Other servants worked within shouting distance.

"All of you gentlemen have been known to visit houses of pleasure,” she said bluntly, making her companion wince. “On the night the woman was murdered in Duke Humphrey's Rents, ‘tis a known fact that many courtiers were nearby, in attendance on the queen."

"Aye. And 1 believe I saw Cordoba that night, too."

"So you were there?"

"Aye. As you say, all your suspects could have committed any of the crimes. That particular night, hundreds of courtiers accompanied Queen Elizabeth from Whitehall to Baynard's Castle. I do not remember being with Pendennis or Lord Robin or your good husband, but I recall now thinking I recognized Cordoba in the crowd. I discounted the sighting, and forgot all about it until now, for we knew very well, or thought we did, that Cordoba had left England long before."

"When? Did Cordoba fight at Saint-Quentin?"

A negative shake of the head answered her. Elliott looked completely serious now. “The king sent him ... somewhere. He left court shortly before we went to France. Shortly after Lora's murder. I assumed he'd gone back to Spain."

"When did you return from the war?"

"With Lord Robin. The battle was in August. By late September we were disbanded and dispatched home."

"Pendennis too?"

"Pendennis was wounded at Saint-Quentin. He came back earlier.” He cocked his head, his gaze sharpening, boring into her. “You did not know that?"

"No.” The thought of Sir Walter injured made her clasp her hands together tightly in her lap, but she was quick to regain control of herself. “Then all of you were in England in time for the next murder, that of Little Alice."

"You speak as if you knew these women personally,” he muttered.

If he'd said they were of no importance, being whores, she'd have struck him, but Francis Elliott wisely kept any thought concerning that aspect of the murders to himself. She watched him watch her as they both mulled over what they knew.

"It is all very well to suspect the gentlemen you do,’ he said after a time, “but there are also many lesser men who had equal opportunity to do harm to any or all of those women. Lord Robin's servants. Other menials with posts at court. And those not so menial."

"Does Lord Robin have the same servants now as then?"

"He may."

She would find out, Susanna decided. Sir Walter would know.

"These posts at court—are they not filled anew at the beginning of each reign?"

"Ah, there you are mistaken.” He seemed inordinately pleased to have caught her in an error. “Many newcomers do receive their rewards in the form of appointments to serve the new monarch, but others stay on. The Master of the Queen's Horse has a permanent staff of more than sixty. Some have been working in Royal Mews since they were first converted to stables in old King Henry's time."

He was right, and in truth she'd already known that. Had not Sir Walter told her that the old keeper of the storage room where Lora had died had been there when Edward was king? And that he'd died only a year ago?

Something else flickered in her memory, but she could not grasp it.

Forehead creasing in the effort, Elliott came up with another example. “Thomas Keyes,” he said. “Sergeant-porter, keeper of the queen's water gate at Whitehall. He's been there at least since Queen Mary's reign.” He chuckled. “One can scarce miss him. He stands a head higher than any other man I know, and is burly besides."

"And I should suspect him?” Susanna asked in dry tones. She remembered noticing the fellow during her recent visit to Whitehall with Sir Walter. He was as large a person as Elliott indicated. Bigger than Peregrine Marsdon.

"I did not mean to imply that,” Elliott assured her. “Indeed, Keyes is the kindest of men. A widower with young children. He shelters travelers caught in bad weather in his own lodgings above the gate and has been known to host many a merry gathering there. My point is that you cannot suspect only those of us who figured most prominently in events leading up to Lora Tylney's death. Rather, you must suspect every man who was at court then."

At last seizing upon the elusive thought she'd been trying to capture earlier, Susanna narrowed her eyes. “Your father?"

Elliott laughed. “Aye. My father. Not such an unlikely villain. He was a clerk to the Master of Revels under Queen Mary. He might well have gone back to the storage room that night. It was part of his responsibility to make sure all the scenes and machines were returned to their proper places."

"Gone back?"

"Have you not learned that, Lady Appleton? He came in with the keeper and caught us there. He did not see me. I moved into the shadows to avoid him."

"And suggested leaving in case he did return?” So much for his chivalrous behavior toward Lora.

"My father has a temper,” Elliott allowed. “I had no wish to be embarrassed in front of my friends."

Had Jerome Elliott gone back after his son left? Was he the murderer she sought? Susanna could not ignore the possibility. Even after he'd given up his post at court, he'd lived near London. Very close to both Southwark and Deptford. Could he have attracted a young woman like Sabina Dowe? He might have, she conceded, if he'd made her think he had money and power and a place at court. Or perhaps she had simply been on her way to meet some young lover when Elliott waylaid her. Susanna found it tempting indeed to visualize the unpleasant Jerome Elliott in the role of villain.

"What did your mother look like?” she asked abruptly.

"Like an angel."

For a moment, Elliott seemed to lose his composure. Some powerful emotion flickered in his eyes, but it was gone again an instant later. He drew in a deep, steadying breath. “You are thorough, Lady Appleton. My mother was a small woman. But she had fair hair, the same color as this.” He touched a golden lock. “I cannot prove it, more's the pity. Father had her portrait painted in miniature, but he destroyed it after she left us."

"Did your father kill her, or was it suicide?"

Again, she'd caught him by surprise. Again, he recovered himself. “You should not listen to gossip, Lady Appleton."

Ginger returned and Elliott scooped her up, concentrating fiercely on eliciting a purr as he spoke of the painful events of his youth.

"My father, a knight's younger son, married a distant kinswoman to secure an inheritance. My mother was born in Westmorland. She was most unhappy living in Bermondsey. She ran away during my thirteenth year, returned to the north, and tried to have her marriage annulled. Angered, my father gave out that she had died and forbade the mention of her name in our house ever again. He may have wanted to murder her for leaving us, but he did not kill her. Some years later, she and I were reunited and I saw for myself that she was content with life apart from Father."

Placing Ginger gently on the ground, he stood to take his leave. His expression cold and unrevealing, he met Susanna's eyes. “My father is not the murderer you seek, Lady Appleton. He was in Bermondsey when Diane St. Cyr was murdered. As was I."

"I wish to visit the Spanish embassy,” Susanna announced.

Robert gaped at her, appalled by the suggestion. He had thought, in the week since her return from Leigh Abbey, that she had lost interest in catching a killer. On the other hand, he'd spent only one night in the Catte Street house in all that time. It was possible she'd unearthed all manner of secrets.

Concealing a deep-rooted concern with an air of nonchalance, he forced himself to lean back against the inside of the casement, put his feet up on the window seat, bite into the comfit he held in one hand, and ask why.

"I have questions about Diego Cordoba. If he was, as you claim, the man who murdered all these women, then it seems possible someone there will have noticed odd behavior either before or after he killed Diane St. Cyr."

Did a man's manner alter fresh from such a kill? Robert was not convinced of it. He'd seen soldiers slaughter their fellows, in battle and in the aftermath. He'd watched two hotheads fight with sword and buckler over a matter of honor. But killing women to a pattern was different. Mayhap there had been signs.