Face Down among the Winchester Geese (8 page)

It had seemed to Susanna that early on a Monday morning would not be a busy time in an establishment such as this one. She'd chosen the hour of her visit for that precise reason. Now, however, she wondered if everyone but the manservant was still asleep. The house was very quiet around them as he led the way up a winding stair.

A narrow corridor ran the length of the upper level. What an extraordinary number of private chambers, Susanna thought as she passed door after door. Only one stood open, at the end. Jennet at her heels, Susanna entered a room any housewife would envy.

"The proprietor,” their guide announced. He shut them in when he left.

Susanna could scarce keep the surprise out of her voice. “Why, you are the very one I seek!” The last thing she had expected was to find a woman of no more than four-and-twenty in charge of this place.

"Who are you and what do you want?” Attired in a nightgown, a loose, wrap-over, floor-length garment made of crimson satin with wide bands of black velvet down the fronts and around the hem, the woman was just breaking her fast with ale and manchet bread. She did not seem alarmed or even irritated by their intrusion, only wary.

Acting on impulse, Susanna discarded the visor.

"I am Lady Appleton,” she announced. “I saw you yesterday morning when I came to identify the body of Mistress Diane ... Leigh. She was a woman who looked a good deal like you."

A sudden stillness was the brothelkeeper's only response.

"There seems no reason for Diane to have been murdered, since she was not robbed. One possibility is that she was attacked in error.” Susanna met and held the other woman's eyes, dark eyes much like Diane's. “You bear such a close resemblance to her that I cannot help but think she might have been mistaken for you."

Slowly, deliberately, the brothelkeeper bit into a chunk of bread and chewed. She did not speak until she had swallowed. “Why should I discuss this matter, or any other, with you?"

"Because it is in your best interest to do so. If someone was trying to kill you, will they not try again?"

"I am safe.” A wry smile kicked up the sides of her mouth. “For another year, at least."

Susanna came farther into the room with Jennet trailing reluctantly behind her. “I do not understand you.

"This particular sort of murder seems only to occur on the twenty-fifth day of April. Today is the twenty-sixth."

"Do you speak of Mistress Tylney?” she asked. If so, this was unexpected, and a tie to Robert that Susanna could not like.

With calm, intelligent eyes, the brothelkeeper studied her guests. After a long silence, she seemed to come to a decision. “Sit,” she invited, gesturing toward a cushioned chest. “It seems likely to profit us both if we share what we know."

Susanna obliged, using the time it took to cross the room for a more detailed survey of her surroundings.

The level of luxury continued to surprise her. So did the display of good taste. The wainscoting on the walls consisted of small oak panels decorated with roundels showing faces in profile. The plaster ceiling was covered with intricate geometric patterns. The furniture, like that belowstairs, was painted—crimson on the stools and benches, gold for the chests and coffers, bright blue on the tables and cupboards.

Jennet sniffed disdainfully as she settled herself at her mistress's side. The stony stare she directed at their hostess was full of disapproval, particularly of the nightgown and the woman's long, black hair, which was both unbound and uncovered.

"I have many questions,” Susanna said.

"As do I."

"I will endeavor to answer them, Mistress...?"

With a faint smile, the woman confirmed Susanna's earlier guess. “I am called Petronella."

Susanna lifted a brow. “Called?"

"It is the custom for women in my profession to take names that sound foreign. ‘Tis a popular misconception among our clients that French and Italian women, and even those who are Dutch or Flemish, know more interesting diversions than those who are native born."

"So the name is deceptive?"

"Or tells much in itself."

Susanna nodded. “Yes, I see. My given name is Susanna."

"The virtuous heroine of Old Testament times."

"And a popular choice among those of the New Religion."

"Even as those who cling to the old faith still name their daughters Ursula and Werburga after local saints."

Her hostess was obviously an educated woman. With a degree of surprise, Susanna realized that she was inclined to like her. “You implied there have been other murders. Will you tell me about them?"

"A member of my profession was killed last April. I confirmed the date last night. She is buried in the single woman's churchyard here in Southwark. Another woman was slain several years ago. Lora, she was called. Both of them and your friend shared the same physical description. All had their necks broken. And all died on St. Mark's Day."

"Do you know this Lora's surname, or the year in which she was killed?” Susanna had little doubt Petronella spoke of Lora Tylney, the name Jennet had overheard.

"No,” Petronella said, “but I perceive that you do."

"Aye. Lora Tylney. She died six years ago. A feather was found near her body,” Susanna added. “One was also left near Diane's.” Robert and Sir Walter might discount this as coincidence, but Susanna could not.

Petronella's brow furrowed in thought. “What kind of feather?"

"The quill of a goose.

Bitterness underscored Petronella's next words. “'Tis possible that was meant as a reference to Winchester geese."

"I do not understand you,” Susanna said.

"That is what we are called, those of us who earn our livings in places such as this. Once the Bishop of Winchester owned all these houses and the women who worked for him became known as Winchester geese. The term has other meanings, but that is the most common."

"Was Lora a whore?"

"I asked that very question myself. It appears not. And your friend?"

"A married man's mistress, perhaps, but not a woman who worked in a bordello."

At Petronella's knowing smile, Susanna suddenly felt uneasy. Was it possible this woman knew Robert? The thought unnerved her, but this was not a line of questioning she wished to pursue. Not yet.

"Did Lora die here in Southwark?” she asked instead.

Setting aside the covered flagon that held her ale, Petronella stood. Susanna had seen no signs of emotion before, but now she noted the clasped hands, fingernails digging into palms, and the quickened breathing. Petronella kept her agitation under control only with a great effort.

"She died at court. She was a chamberer to Queen Mary."

That news brought Susanna to her feet as well. There was no longer any doubt that Petronella's Lora was the woman of whom Robert and Sir Walter had spoken. Six years ago, she recalled, England had been preparing for war with France. At the end of April, King Philip had been in England, engaged in gathering troops. To improve his political fortunes, Robert had gone to court and, later, off to fight. He'd been knighted for his bravery in battle.

Robert and Sir Walter were hiding something. For some reason they wanted Diane's death glossed over and forgotten. Susanna did not like to think that either of them, or any of the friends of their youth, might have been guilty of a murder six years ago, but she had to consider that chilling possibility ... and one other.

"Is it likely there are more victims?” It was a particularly unpalatable thought.

"More women who look like me? Dead women?"

"Aye.” That a woman of a certain description might have been slain every St. Mark's Day since Mary sat on the throne was horrifying to contemplate, and yet Susanna knew she must.

By her grim expression, Petronella saw the logic of Susanna's conclusion. Perhaps it was one she had already come to on her own. “It is possible,” she allowed.

"We must try to discover if it is so,” Susanna said. “Will you ask among the other houses here in Southwark?"

"I will ask, but here the death of a whore is less than nothing."

"To officials, perhaps, but to her friends?"

"A clever girl lasts but three or four years before she's worn out. Others are not so fortunate."

Appalled, Susanna gaped at her.

"I will ask,” Petronella promised again.

"If we learn enough,” Susanna told her, “we may be able to put an end to these killings."

"You should look elsewhere, as well,” Petronella said.

Susanna felt her insides clench as she realized Petronella must have heard of Lora Tylney from someone who had been at Queen Mary's court. In all likelihood someone known to Susanna. Perhaps well known.

Again she wondered if Petronella had ever met Robert. Again she did not ask.

"Murder must not go unpunished,” she said instead, “no matter who the killer is.” Only by determining the identity of the murderer could she resolve her own doubts about Robert's involvement.

"Not even a whore's murder?"

"Not even a whore's murder.” For a moment something very like understanding flickered between them. Susanna had the feeling she'd just made a pact, a commitment to find justice for all the murdered women.

"Who told you about Lora Tylney's death?” she asked.

The tenuous bond dissolved. “You should leave now, Lady Appleton."

So, Petronella meant to keep his identity secret. A gentleman or a nobleman, that much seemed likely. Someone Susanna knew, at least by reputation. Mayhap someone in Robert's circle of friends, someone she had met. She hoped Petronella's client did not turn out to be Walter Pendennis. She found she could not like the thought of Sir Walter visiting a Bankside brothel, though she could not imagine why the possibility bothered her so much.

"Look you to the court and courtiers,” Petronella said. “Leave Bankside to me."

"Will you send word if you learn anything to our purpose?” Susanna reluctantly resumed Diane's visor in preparation to depart.

With equal reluctance, Petronella promised that she would.

Susanna told her new ally where the Appletons lodged, then left the Sign of the Smock and walked rapidly toward Paris Garden Stairs. Her mind raced even faster. Look to the court? And who there could she question, in a casual fashion, about events so long ago?

Petronella had said that Lora was a chamberer, in other words an upper-level maidservant of gentle birth. Who better to ask about her murder than other royal attendants? But with Queen Elizabeth's accession, Queen Mary's ladies-in-waiting, maids of honor, and chamberers had for the most part been replaced. Were laundresses, scullery maids, seamstresses, and the like also changed at the beginning of each new reign? Susanna had no idea. Then she realized it did not matter. She did know one person still at court who had most assuredly been there throughout Queen Mary's reign.

At Thameside, Susanna and Jennet paid their pennies to a waterman and clambered aboard his wherry for the river crossing. Jennet let out a huff as she sank onto the hard wooden bench provided for passengers. “'Tis glad I am to be clear of that place."

"Try to keep an open mind, Jennet. The woman will be more inclined to help us if she does not sense your disdain."

"How can you lower yourself to treat her as an equal?” Jennet demanded. “She is a bawd."

"I know what goes on in her establishment."

Or at least she thought she did. In truth, she was curious to learn more. She wondered about Petronella's background and her reasons for earning her keep as she did. The brothelkeeper was not at all what Susanna had expected.

Dismissing Robert Appleton's wife from her thoughts, Petronella went about her normal morning business. The premises had to be inspected for cleanliness, to make sure no offensive smells drove customers away. The girls here had clean smocks and clean bed linen and were regularly checked for disease and signs of breeding by Old Mag the midwife.

In addition, those who had broken the rules had to be called to account. Petronella visited the young woman who called herself Celia Clatterballocks. The small cubicle she'd been assigned held naught but a bed, a stool, and two identical pissing pots, one for Celia and one for her customer, a nicety observed in better bordellos like this one. The makeshift walls were no thicker than a screen, yet here the whores had more privacy than most of their profession enjoyed, and Petronella allowed her employees to live in, despite local ordinances against that practice.

"You have been using bad language again, Celia."

Her tone was one of mild reproof. “One of your men complained. We entertain an elite clientele here. None of our customers will tolerate being cursed at or called names."

Sullen, Celia mumbled something her bawd could not catch.

"You may refuse only if ‘tis obvious the client is greatly diseased.

"'E were cunt-beaten,” Celia muttered.

"The word is ‘impotent,’ and it is your job to help him overcome that problem.” Seeing she was not making an impression, Petronella changed tactics. “Your earnings will increase if you follow my rules, Celia. Why, you could take in as much as ten pounds a month per man if you make yourself desirable enough. Some of my girls have even married clients when they were ready to retire."

Her interest piqued, Celia looked sly. “'Ow?"

Although Petronella had gone through her precepts many times before, she repeated them. “Keep yourself clean and your skin soft by frequent bathing and the use of oils and creams. Use alum between customers to stay dry and clean.” Celia made a face. “Wine, then. That will do as much to tighten things up again. And learn to speak well, without cursing."

There was no excuse not to mimic their betters, in speech and dress and manners. Petronella provided dancing masters and tutors for her employees. They were encouraged to study foreign languages, especially French, and could learn to read and write, as she had, if they so chose. ‘Twas rare anyone entertained more than a dozen men a night, and Petronella spared her girls the need to demand payment from their customers. Those who came to the Sign of the Smock paid in advance for what they wanted.