Face Down among the Winchester Geese (7 page)

Nothing in Lady Appleton's expression gave away her thoughts. Jennet was sure she herself would have shown a great deal of displeasure had her Mark been standing in Sir Robert's boots. ‘Twas no pleasant task to wash and wrap a dead person. Even less bearable if the deceased was the most recent mistress of a wandering husband.

Determined to remain unnoticed, that she might listen to whatever would unfold, Jennet held in check the ire she felt on Lady Appleton's behalf. Sir Robert's wife was perfectly capable of taking him down a peg or two, if she chose to do so. That she was biding her time likely meant she had good reason to wait.

As Jennet continued to spy on the three people by the trestle table, she realized this was the first time she'd been privileged to observe how Sir Robert behaved when both Lady Appleton and Sir Walter were in his company. The situation might prove most enlightening. Jennet looked first at her mistress. Lady Appleton's stance seemed a trifle more relaxed, indicating mat she was relieved Sir Walter had come. Because he would take charge? Or because there was something more personal between them?

Jennet shoved the foolish thought aside. Lady Appleton had no notion how the man felt about her.

Sir Walter gazed at his friend's wife like a lovesick lad, an expression that vanished the moment Sir Robert glanced his way. It was perfectly obvious to Jennet that Sir Walter, a man Sir Robert acknowledged was the pride of the queen's intelligence gatherers, after Sir Robert himself, was thoroughly smitten. Pity it could come to naught. Not, at least, while Sir Robert lived.

While the two men studied the body, Jennet compared them. Dark and light, she thought. Sir Robert was black of hair and often black of mood, tending to brood when he felt himself slighted. Sir Walter was fair-haired, with locks of a sort of sand color. His beard was a shade lighter. As tall and broad shouldered as Sir Robert, he was rumored once to have been a valiant challenger in the lists, but as long as Jennet had known him, he'd shown only the effects of soft living. A slight paunch distended the already padded front of a fashionably long, salmon-colored doublet that matched the lining of his hat.

Sir Robert, Jennet had to admit, was hard as steel. Body and soul. That ought to make him more desirable to a woman, but in truth she thought the softer man would be easier to live with. Certainly Sir Walter smiled more often.

"Do you know her surname?” Lady Appleton asked. “I would like to see Diane buried under her proper identity."

"St. Cyr,” Sir Walter told her. “A widow. But it may be best to conceal that for the present."

"You seek to hide her nationality?” Lady Appleton did not seem surprised, but the idea puzzled Jennet.

Something to do with Sir Robert, she supposed. He'd gone to France at least once on secret missions for the queen.

Frowning, Jennet began to gnaw her lower lip as Sir Walter announced that ‘twas best to let Diane be thought an Englishwoman.

Reluctantly, Lady Appleton agreed to continue her ruse. “Had she some particular enemy? Someone who might have followed her here from France?"

"None we know of.” Sir Walter stepped back from the table. “Her neck was broken,” he observed.

"Nothing was stolen. She still had her clothing, and money on her person, and jewelry.” Lady Appleton looked from one man to the other, but neither offered any comment. “I know not if it has significance, but I found a feather near the body.” She produced it from atop a small, flat-lidded chest, where she'd also placed the dead woman's outer garments and a mourning ring, and held it out to Sir Walter.

"A goose feather,” he murmured. He exchanged a sharp glance with Sir Robert.

"What does it signify?” Lady Appleton asked.

"Nothing."

"You are quick to say so, Robert."

"Because there is naught here to pursue."

Lady Appleton seemed about to protest when she was interrupted by a brisk knock at the front door. By rights, Jennet should have gone to answer it. She stayed where she was.

"That will be Mistress St. Cyr's traveling trunk,” Sir Walter said. “If my man brings it in here, we may all examine the contents."

"I will so instruct him,” Lady Appleton said.

Jennet held her breath and kept very still, afraid her keys would jangle and give away her presence.

With luck, the two men had forgotten all about her. Lady Appleton had not. She glanced at Jennet on her way to the door, but said nothing to call attention to her.

"Do you imagine there is a connection?” Sir Robert asked the moment his wife was out of earshot.

"It does not seem likely. That other matter was some six years ago. And yet, I do not like this ... coincidence. Mistress Tylney's neck was also broken. And we found a feather then, too."

"Lord Robin thought it was a quill for a pen."

"And Cordoba showed us that it came off one of the pageant wagons. No one thought it had any ... significance."

"It did not,” Sir Robert said in firm tones. “And there cannot possibly be any link between Lora Tylney's death and Diane's. Bury the woman quickly,” he advised, “and with her any hint of scandal, old or new."

They fell silent as Lady Appleton returned with Sir Walter's servant behind her. Assisted by a porter he'd hired to convey it from Southwark, he'd brought a solid oak chest nearly five feet long. A nice piece, Jennet thought, covered with shaved hide and banded in iron and closed with a large padlock.

She looked back at the two knights. A pity they'd not said more, but she had some information, at least, to share with Lady Appleton. If she understood aright, there had been another woman killed in like manner to French Diane. Jennet wondered who this Lora Tylney had been. And what she'd been to Sir Robert.

"Go for the coffinmaker,” Sir Walter instructed his servant when the porter had been paid and dismissed. “Bring back a modest sample of his wares."

As soon as the fellow had departed, Sir Robert and Sir Walter made a study of the lock. Sir Robert used the small dagger appended to his belt to open it, a task accomplished with an ease that surprised Jennet. What a useful talent for an intelligence gatherer, she thought.

Inside they found only clothing and jewelry. Expensive clothing and jewelry. Jennet moved closer, forgetting that she wished to remain hidden. The kirtle Sir Robert removed first was made of fine white satin that must have cost, at the least, ten shillings a yard. Beneath it lay another of crimson satin lined with crimson sarcenet. And below that a gown of damask. Jennet did not dare estimate the cost of the latter, save to swear ‘twould keep ten families in food for a year.

Once he'd removed everything from the trunk, Sir Robert began to search for hidden compartments, slitting the canvas lining with his dagger. He found nothing. No secret panels. No concealed pockets. A thoughtful look on his face, he lifted the damask gown.

Jennet could not hold back a gasp when she realized his intention. Just before he sliced into the fabric, Lady Appleton caught his wrist. “That is not necessary,” she said.

"She must have hidden letters or other papers somewhere. They may be secreted in her clothing."

"Then we will pick out the seams and look, but there is no need to slash and destroy it."

With a mocking bow, he yielded the garment.

"Jennet,” Lady Appleton called softly.

"Yes, madam?"

"Fetch scissors."

For the next hour, they picked apart seams while the men again searched the trunk, inside and out. Lady Appleton made the only discoveries. The first, which Sir Robert dismissed as unimportant, was that a small triangle of fabric was missing from the clothing the Frenchwoman had been wearing when she died.

"Caught her sleeve on something and it tore,” he concluded.

It was a very even tear, Jennet thought. It almost looked as if the piece had deliberately been cut out of the black brocade.

Then Lady Appleton found a folded sheet of paper hidden in the lining of a dark brown wool cloak. She opened it, skimmed its contents, and announced it was a bill of exchange.

"What is that?” Jennet asked.

Sir Walter answered, winning Jennet's gratitude and an even greater degree of liking than he'd claimed before. It was not every gentleman who took time to explain things to a servant.

"'Tis a way of getting money at the end of a journey without the necessity of carrying coins.” He took the parchment from Lady Appleton and examined it. “The traveler, in this case Diane St. Cyr, deposited money with a local merchant, in this case a goldsmith in Paris, who gave her in return this paper. It is directed to a correspondent here in London. When Mistress St. Cyr presented this bill of exchange to him, that London goldsmith would have returned to her a sum only slightly less than what she deposited in Paris."

"'Twas a very great sum,” Lady Appleton remarked.

Who would claim it now? Jennet wondered, but she did not ask, only watched Sir Walter tuck the paper inside his doublet. She had other questions, as well. The search of the dead woman's belongings had brought them no closer to discovering Mistress St. Cyr's reason for coming to England, nor had they unearthed a motive for someone to kill her.

Jennet and Lady Appleton repacked the traveling trunk while the two men talked quietly in a corner of the hall. Jennet could not overhear a single word. Her annoyance was simmering by the time Sir Walter's man returned with a coffin.

"I will arrange for the burial,” Sir Walter offered. “What is the vicar's name?"

"Busken,” Lady Appleton told him. “But what are we to do with her trunk?"

"Keep it, dear lady. For what you have done for her, you deserve the finery. Remake the garments for yourself."

When Lady Appleton would have objected, Sir Robert cut off her protests. “Pendennis is right, Susanna. We have earned these goods."

No matter that the clothing was much too small to fit Lady Appleton, Jennet thought. No doubt Sir Robert expected her to sell it and give him the profit.

"She must have kinfolk. Heirs. Is there no one in France?"

Sir Walter promised to make inquiries, but insisted Lady Appleton keep the trunk and its contents, no matter what he found.

"'Tis fine cloth,” Jennet ventured when the two men had left.

"They will not search for her relatives,” Lady Appleton said. “For some reason, they want this matter to end here."

Jennet sighed deeply. She knew her mistress well. Injustice made Lady Appleton angry. She was both perturbed and offended by the idea that murder might go unpunished. If neither the authorities nor Sir Robert did anything about it, then Lady Appleton would doubtless try to find out who had killed Mistress St. Cyr, especially now that she perceived herself to have profited from the woman's death.

"One mysterious murder,” Lady Appleton mused. “No obvious motive.” Her voice trailed off and she gave her housekeeper a sharp look. “What did you overhear, Jennet, while I was out of the room?” Jennet hesitated, torn between reluctance to involve herself again in tracking down a killer and the pleasant sense of self-importance to be derived from assisting her mistress. At least a full minute passed before she repeated every word that had passed between the two courtiers.

"I must speak with the proprietor of this establishment,” Susanna Appleton said to the formidable male person who opened the front door of the Sign of the Smock. He had fists the size of hams and thighs as big around as small trees.

Insolently he looked her up and down, from the top of her hooded cloak, past the visor she'd found in Diane's trunk, to the tips of her sturdy boots. He cast the same speculative gaze over Jennet, but seemed less interested in her. “I have heard of gentlewomen visiting brothels,” he said, “but they do not customarily bring maidservants with them."

The previous day, after Jennet revealed what Robert and Sir Walter had said to each other about an earlier murder, Susanna had intended to begin her search for information by questioning her own husband, but Robert had left with Sir Walter and he'd stayed away. She could only guess how long she would have to wait before he deigned to return to Catte Street.

The only certain means she could devise to learn more was a return visit to Southwark to locate Diane's look-alike. With luck, Susanna thought she might find a reason for Diane's murder that had naught to do with Robert.

The woman had fled into this ... house. Doubtless she worked here. ‘Twas possible she was the constable's Petronella. The brothelkeeper would know.

Jennet disapproved, arguing that Susanna risked her reputation should she be recognized. Hence the visor. Jennet had also wanted to bring Fulke and Lionel and hire a man or two more for protection, but Susanna had overruled those objections, determined to arrive with as little fuss as possible. Faced with an impertinent giant, she had belated second thoughts.

"Will you let us in or not?” she demanded, relieved to find that her voice sounded normal.

Apparently deciding it was not up to him to bar the way of any who wished to enter, the sentinel stood aside, admitting them to a strangely appointed vestibule. He locked the door behind them.

Instead of the narrow, empty corridor that led into most dwellings, here was a goodly chamber. On the far wall were charcoal sketches of women in fine gowns and headdresses, the sort of studies artists did as preliminary work when they were commissioned to paint portraits. Susanna wondered if these had been executed by some patron of this house in lieu of payment in cash. Beneath the drawings sat a table, account books and coffers neatly laid out on top of it.

Beyond the reception area was the great hall, at present uninhabited. Susanna had never seen a room with so many chairs in it, let alone so many with seat cushions. The chairs were painted in bright colors, as was a cupboard laden with a variety of fine wines and dozens of Venetian goblets. Elaborately woven tapestries graced the walls, showing scenes from classical antiquity. If a few more unclothed bodies graced these depictions than Susanna would have seen in the decor of a private home, she did not find them offensive. In fact., she thought the quality of the arraswork most excellent.