Face Down among the Winchester Geese (5 page)

Diane was no longer beautiful. Someone had snapped her neck, then dropped her like a broken toy. Marks on her cheeks and forehead indicated she'd fallen face down into the refuse that littered this shortcut between streets.

Pity overwhelmed every other emotion as Susanna moved closer. Whatever the Frenchwoman had been in life, she deserved better than to be foully murdered in an alley.

"Do you know her, madam?” the clerk asked.

"Her name was Diane."

He wrote that down. “The surname?"

Susanna did not know, but she did not think it wise to say so. Someone had killed the woman Robert had been on his way to meet when Susanna had last seen him. Too many possibilities occurred to her because of those facts, none of them pleasant.

A jealous lover, finding Robert and Diane together, could have killed them both. But why leave Diane's body here? And where was Robert's?

She discounted that explanation as unlikely.

Still, Robert had doubtless spent the night in Southwark with Diane. If she revealed that assumption, her husband would become a suspect in Diane's murder. Innocent or guilty, an investigation would hurt his standing at court. She was not willing to wreck all his hopes of future advancement on the basis of supposition.

Could he have killed Diane? What if they'd had a lovers’ quarrel?

Susanna forced herself to consider the question rationally, fighting down the emotions that roiled within her. Robert was her husband. She might not love him, might not even like him very much, but she owed him her loyalty, her trust.

And she did much doubt he had the stomach for murder.

Whoever had killed Diane appeared to have come up behind her and snapped her neck. She could not imagine Robert doing that. And surely, if he had, he'd have been more clever at disposing of the body.

Still, he might somehow be tied to the crime. He had known Diane in France, when she'd been involved in a treasonous conspiracy. Susanna abruptly decided that revealing the dead woman's foreign birth would be a mistake. So would encouraging any sort of speculation by the authorities.

"Madam?” The clerk sounded impatient. “Do you know her surname?"

"Aye,” she replied, following her instincts. “'Tis Leigh."

Jennet gave a little gasp of surprise, for that was Susanna's own family name, but the housekeeper said nothing to contradict her mistress. Fulke remained stone-faced, staring in fascination at the dead woman lying in the narrow lane.

Committed to the lie, Susanna elaborated. “She was my distant cousin and a gentlewoman. I will take responsibility for her burial. Where may I hire bearers to carry her back to the parish of St. Lawrence Jewry?"

"There are certain details to be seen to first,” the clerk reminded her.

"Let them be seen to, then.” She assumed an imperious air. From sad experience, she knew something of the procedure. “Where has the coroner gone? When will he return?"

"He is finished here,” the clerk said. “Master Speedwell summoned twelve good men and true immediately upon examining the body. They have declared this was most foul murder by persons unknown."

The coroner had not shown himself to be efficient, simply expedient. Susanna was not surprised by his behavior. She knew coroners were paid from the estates of convicted murderers. If there was no apparent killer, it was likely he'd receive nothing, and although he was required by law to examine the body, call an inquest, and deliver a verdict, it was to his advantage to dispense with the formalities as rapidly as possible.

Susanna surveyed the assorted gawkers assembled in the street. A few bold women ranged among them, as avid for a glimpse of someone else's misfortune as any man. She wondered why they were not in church. Everyone was supposed to attend services in his or her own parish church every Sunday or pay a fine of one shilling for each absence.

"Did any of those good folk see what happened here?” she asked.

"Nay, madam. Layabouts and beggars all. And worse.” The clerk motioned to the redheaded constable to disperse them.

Susanna wondered if anyone had bothered to look for witnesses. And unless pressure was put on the authorities by Robert or some other gentleman, little more was likely be done. Susanna could not influence matters. Not directly. As a married woman she had no legal standing.

But she could ask more questions.

"Is it possible my cousin was the victim of footpads?” These surroundings suggested it. This narrow passage must have been very dark just before dawn. Little sun reached into it even now, only enough to reveal the body and the filth and clutter that littered the ground.

Something pale caught her eye and she stooped to pick up a long white feather lying near Diane's leather-shod feet. A quill from a goose. A quick survey of her surroundings told Susanna there were no more in the vicinity, and she'd not encountered many city dwellers who troubled to keep their own flocks of poultry.

"Footpads would have taken that ring,” the clerk said. Diane still wore the mourning ring Susanna had noticed the previous day. “And likely her clothing, as well."

And left a feather? Susanna slipped the quill into the pocket in her cloak, meaning to examine it later.

The clerk stroked his chin in an attempt to make himself seem more important than he was. The gesture, Susanna thought, would have been more effective if he'd had a beard.

"'Tis only luck she was not robbed,” he said. “Someone else might easily have come by after her killer left, had not she been found so quick by the watch. Just past dawn,” he added. “Constable thought she was drunk at first."

Susanna fixed him with a hard stare. “Why would he assume that?"

"Look around you, madam. This is Bankside. Half the buildings hereabout are tugging houses.” Brothels.

Jennet moved a little closer to Fulke, fastidiously lifting her skirt and petticoat as if to avoid any chance contamination. Even Susanna was startled into saying the first thing that came into her mind.

"Can your men not tell a gentlewoman by her dress?” Diane's garments were of fine black brocade trimmed with lace and silk braid.

"Some whores hereabout have better than this."

More curious than repulsed by the man's frankness, Susanna looked out of the alley and across the wider street to the signs on the whitewashed buildings. One showed a woman's smock. Another featured a cardinal's hat. She blinked and looked again. On closer inspection, the distinctive pink hat bore a striking resemblance to the tip of a man's pintle.

"If this area is ... active through the night,” she mused, “then there is a chance that someone did see what befell my cousin. Can no one question the inhabitants? Ask if anyone saw what manner of man killed her?"

"Not likely they'd tell anyone even if they did, madam.” The coroner's clerk sounded resigned.

"So, you do not intend to look for my cousin's murderer?"

"She was in a bad neighborhood and was mistaken for a prostitute,” he said bluntly. The unspoken message was clear—the investigation had ended the moment Susanna gave the body a name and claimed it.

From the remaining onlookers, the clerk recruited two stout fellows to serve as litter bearers. It was then that Susanna noticed one figure standing a little apart from the others. Susanna blinked. For a moment she'd thought she was looking at the dead woman come to life again.

Of the same physical type, the stranger also shared Diane's dark hair and eyes. On closer inspection, however, Susanna saw that this woman had a much plainer face, and her clothing, though of similar quality to Diane's, was brightly colored. With another jolt, Susanna abruptly comprehended that the subject of her scrutiny was one of the neighborhood's whores.

Fascinated, Susanna narrowed her eyes and stared harder. As if the woman sensed someone's intense interest and was made uncomfortable by it, she turned and walked swiftly away. Susanna watched her until she went into one of the houses, the one that bore the sign with the smock.

The constable's earlier comment came back to her.

He'd thought Diane was someone else at first. Someone named Petronella. Had that been she?

"We are ready, Lady Appleton,” Fulke announced, bringing her attention back to Diane's body. Someone had found a dagswain blanket to wrap it in and a door for it to lie upon.

She would prepare Diane's body for burial with her own hands, Susanna decided, and make arrangements for a proper interment in the parish churchyard. Then, if it lay within her power, she would do more.

She would learn Diane's real surname, that a memorial brass might be inscribed with it. She would try to discover why Diane had been killed. And, if she could find a way to identify the killer, she would bring that person to justice, whoever he might be.

Susanna's expression was grim as she left the alley to follow after the makeshift bier. She would have to begin her investigation by questioning her own husband. She did not look forward to the prospect.

The woman who called herself Petronella watched from an upper window as the little procession made its way along Maiden Lane. In the near distance she could just hear the commotion of the crowd beginning to gather to watch exhibitions of bear and bull baiting in the amphitheater in Paris Garden. The chief matches were held on Sundays and later, when spectators grew to be a thousand strong, shouts of “Now, bull!” and “Now, dog!” and “'Ware horns, ho!” would carry plainly to the Sign of the Smock.

Petronella had gone to inspect the victim upon hearing her general description. This was the second small, black-haired woman she knew to have been murdered in Southwark. In both cases, the victim's neck had been broken.

She shivered, well aware of their resemblance to herself. She knew, too, that to be murdered was not an uncommon fate for one in her profession. The patrons of this house were of a better sort than those who visited some other places at Bankside, but they were men, men who often consumed excessive amounts of drink, and for their coin they expected much. Too much, on occasion. All men reacted badly to being refused.

How long ago had that other woman died? Petronella tried to remember. Before or after Easter? After, she was sure. In fact, she thought it had been just about a year ago when the whore who'd styled herself Ambrosia La Petite had been killed. She'd complained of feeling she was being watched for weeks before her death. Her friends had laughed at her. Certes, she was watched, they'd mocked. She'd be a failure in her profession if men did not look at her.

In the last few days, though, Petronella had known that same sensation, a prickling at the nape of her neck at unexpected moments, the sense that malevolent eyes followed her. She tried to tell herself she was no common woman. Not now that the Sign of the Smock was hers. It had been left to her by her godmother three years earlier, and Petronella, even when she'd been plain Molly Bainbridge, had always been allowed to pick and choose her clients.

The woman they'd just taken away had not been employed in any of the brothels hereabout. She had not been in the profession at all. Had she been killed by mistake? The possibility that Petronella herself had been the intended victim was not pleasant to contemplate.

There was no protection if someone was stalking her. She knew that, just as she knew that the authorities never much troubled themselves to investigate the deaths of Southwark prostitutes. She could deal with her fear by staying indoors, but her house was not that secure. By the very nature of her business, she nightly invited strangers onto the premises.

And what if the murderer was not a stranger? What if he were someone she knew, perhaps knew very well? Her hand crept to her throat, fingering the hard, cold amethysts in her necklace as if they were beads in a rosary. She willed a measure of calm to return. A murder had taken place. A stranger lay dead. ‘Twas no business of hers. That two murdered women had resembled the bawd at the Sign of the Smock, why that was surely naught but gruesome coincidence.

Petronella gasped at the sound of a light knock at her bedchamber door. The man on the other side did not wait for her to bid him come in, but entered assured of his welcome, a bold smile on his dark face and a sensual gleam in his eye. When he took her in his arms, his kiss seared her, making her heart pound and her breath come faster, and for a little while she forgot everything but him.

It was always so with this man. He affected her as no other ever had. They dispensed with their clothing quickly and fell into her big four-post bed. With the ease of old lovers, they passed the next hour in most pleasurable sport. But when he lay well satisfied beside her, he seemed to sense her preoccupation. He propped himself up on one elbow to gaze into her eyes.

"Something troubles you.” It was not a question. She sighed. He knew her too well. “A woman was murdered near here during the night. Her neck broken."

"A pity. And yet such things happen."

"There was another woman murdered that same way about a year ago. And these two women were both small. Both dark. Either could have been mistaken for me. I think, perhaps, this woman today may have died in my place."

"Madre de Dios."

"Aye.” She caressed his forearm. So strong, her handsome, one-eyed Spaniard. Strong enough to kill.

She hastily repressed the thought. Why would Diego want to kill her? Why would he want to kill anyone? But it was obvious that her revelation had disturbed him. He was scowling quite fiercely.

"Tell me all you know about these women. Why you think you are in danger.” He spoke with only the slightest trace of an accent, for he had lived in England for many years.

"One was a whore. The other a stranger, but mayhap of good birth. By her dress, ‘twas a gentlewoman who claimed her body."

"Identities?"

"For this morning's victim, I know not. The other was Ambrosia La Petite.” She tried to smile at the fact that Mistress La Petite had chosen her professional name on the basis of her build.

She thought Diego would laugh, that he would find a way to talk her out of her fear. “Today is St. Mark's Day,” he said instead.