Face Down among the Winchester Geese (19 page)

At her first glimpse of Marsdon, Susanna's steps faltered. He was immense. Such a man could break a woman's neck with as much ease as a goodwife wrung a chicken's.

"Wait,” Beckett cautioned. “Watch."

A falcon sat on Marsdon's wrist, hooded and leashed.

"See how his assistant hands him the lure? ‘Tis a pair of crane's wings tied together with a leather thong, held in the position they'd have if they were folded on the crane's back. Now he removes the hood, at the same time singing to the bird.” A faint melody reached Susanna's ears.” ‘Tis the same tune he uses every time he feeds her."

Marsdon kept bold of the jesses while the falcon tasted the meat in the lure. His assistant, an elderly, stooped fellow, but spry, then took the lure, carried it to a place some distance away, placed it on the ground, and withdrew. As Susanna and the others watched, Marsdon released the bird, letting the line that held her run through his fingers until she landed on the lure.

"He rewards her with meat,” Beckett explained unnecessarily, “then recaptures her and repeats the training, teaching her to come back to his wrist at his call. A good falconer must be patient above all, but also needs acute hearing and vision, a daring spirit, an alert mind, and an even temper."

Marsdon was as gentle as a nursemaid with the bird.

"I did not think gentlemen served as falconers,” Susanna remarked.

"Master Marsdon is a most unusual gentleman."

Beckett was laughing at her, she thought, but she was not sure why.

"This amuses you?"

"Your pardon, Lady Appleton. Not only is it unique for a gentleman to train his own birds, but most authorities agree that the best falconers are men of medium size, not too large to be agile but not too small to be strong. Those are the same folk who believe the only good birds come out of Dansk or sundry places in the East and are to be had only at excessive prices. The truth is that we have right here in England the lanner and the lanneret, the tercel and the goshawk, the sparrowhawk, hawk, and even some few merlins."

"Though this talk of birds is most illuminating, Master Beckett, I came here to learn all I could of another Peregrine. You need not delay me further. Sir Walter warned me that Master Marsdon prefers to avoid women. He told me Marsdon's betrothed left him for another."

"You need have no concern for your safety, Lady Appleton. Master Marsdon has mellowed in the years since, and found contentment here, in the life he now leads."

"How long ago did she jilt him?” Susanna asked. Beckett thought a moment. “Five years? No more than that."

After Lora's death, then. If Marsdon had killed her, it had not been in retribution for that particular betrayal.

"I never go to London,” Marsdon himself told her a short time later. He was a soft-spoken man, for all his giant stature. He and Beckett sat side by side on the remains of the corner of a wall of an abbey dissolved and razed in the days of King Henry. Susanna perched at a right angle to the two men, with a clear view of both.

"You knew Lora Tylney?” she asked.

"I knew of her. I knew she was the quarry that night at Whitehall, though I did not have much interest in finding her."

"Because you were betrothed?"

Marsdon smiled. “I do not deal well with women, unless they be safely married, as you are, Lady Appleton."

"You have sisters, I am told."

"Aye. Six of them."

"Big strapping girls,” Beckett put in. “Not a tiny, dark-haired lass among them."

"And all married now.” Marsdon's pride in that accomplishment was evident. “I have Spur Hall to myself at last."

He sounded sincere.

"Tell me about that night at Whitehall,” she urged him.

"There is not much to recount. We behaved like drunken fools and were evicted from the premises."

"Evicted?"

"Aye. One of the keepers caught us. An old man.” He frowned. “Might have had a servant with him. I cannot recall, but I do remember how distraught the fellow was on behalf of the Office of Revels. Doubtless he thought we meant to break up the scenery. Lord Robin sent him away, but the fun had gone out of being there by then. We left right after."

"This keeper ... might he have come back?"

Marsdon laughed. “Anything is possible. And now that I think on it, it must have been that same keeper who discovered the body the next day."

In that case, Susanna thought, she had no hope of speaking with him. According to Sir Walter, the old keeper had died some time ago. She took what consolation she could from knowing she could therefore also eliminate him as the murderer.

"Lady Appleton believes knowledge is always a good thing."

"You do not seem so sure of that.” Mildly amused by the fact that Jennet had arrived unescorted at the Sign of the Smock and asked to speak with her alone, Petronella had suggested a stroll in the garden. At this time of day, the walkway was deserted. Only the ducks on the small artificial pond could overhear their conversation.

"I think she may have put her own life at risk,” Jennet said. “I think Sir Robert was the one who killed all these women. And I fear that when he realizes that his wife is still asking questions.... “Her voice trailed off, as if she could not bear to voice the possibilities aloud.

"Has she found something?” Petronella demanded, thinking of Diego. “Some evidence?"

"No. But Sir Robert's behavior has been most odd. Fulke has noticed, too."

"And who is Fulke?"

"A groom. He went with Sir Robert to Scotland. And again into Spain. And more recently into Hampshire."

"Sir Robert has been to Spain?"

"Aye. This past year. And now he is up to something.” She lowered her voice. “He's been visiting the goldsmiths. Fulke told me that, too."

Sir Robert was no doubt involved in something he'd not want the world to know, but Petronella was not convinced it was murder, or that Lady Appleton was in any danger ... from her husband. Still, Jennet might be right to fear the killer.

Petronella shivered, even though the morning sunlight was warm. For the last few days, she'd once again felt that she was being watched. Stalked. If the man who had already murdered seven women broke his pattern, it might be to kill Lady Appleton, but it seemed to her as likely he would not bother to wait until next April to make sure Petronella kept silent. Her interest in the murders was far more widely known than the gentlewoman's.

"This is a dangerous business,” she agreed, “but I do not see how either of us can convince your mistress to change her mind."

"You could,” Jennet said, boldly meeting her eyes. “You could pretend to discover proof that the Spaniard is guilty. She'll believe evidence you unearth. She trusts you."

Inordinately pleased, Petronella smiled weakly.

Such a solution would not work, but she had to admire Jennet's audacity in suggesting it.

She might have pointed out that, if Sir Robert was guilty, this plan would leave him free. Or that it seemed clear Lady Appleton did not think her husband was the murderer. Instead she asked a question.

"You are more to her than a maidservant, are you not?"

Jennet drew herself up a bit straighter, smoothing both hands down the front of her dark blue bodice and skirt. “I am the housekeeper at Leigh Abbey. My husband is the steward there. And here in London, where the house is small and there is little to do, I am as much friend and companion as servant. I have been with Lady Appleton for many long years. She depends on me."

"And yet you would betray her."

Shocked, Jennet sputtered a denial.

"I speak the truth. You came here without her knowledge. You would stop her, thwart her."

"Protect her!"

"She would, I do think, most strenuously object to your efforts if she were to learn of them."

Angry, Jennet would have stalked off had Petronella not caught her arm, pulling at her until they stood face to face once more. Jennet was a bit taller and much rounder, and her eyes flashed dangerously, but Petronella was no weakling. She clung to the other woman's sleeve, determined to have her say.

"The only way all of us will be safe is if we discover this madman's identity and end the killing."

"All of us? Whores?"

"Women!"

Nearly nose to nose, they stared at each other for a long moment before Jennet blinked. When she stepped back, Petronella released her. To her surprise, the other woman made no further attempt to leave the garden.

"How can you and Lady Appleton be so like?” Jennet wondered in a whisper. “Think so like?"

Petronella found she was smiling. “As your mistress did, I received a good education. I was brought up to run mine own business.” She gestured behind her, toward the Sign of the Smock. “My inheritance."

Reluctant fascination showed on Jennet's face. “Is that how all brothelkeepers gain their posts? Generations of...” She flushed, hesitant now to risk giving further offense by repeating the word whores.

With a wry chuckle, Petronella shook her head. “In my case, yes. But we come to it in many ways. Why, there is a brothelkeeper here in Southwark who was born a gentlewoman. Old Heloise. She's something of a legend hereabout. Ran away from her family back in King Henry's day and went to work in a brothel. Just for fun, the way she tells it. Now she owns the place."

Jennet's eyes went wide with astonishment and—was it possible?—admiration.

"It is not an easy life,” Petronella felt compelled to add. “Most girls do not end up so well. There are risks.” Diseases, in particular. The French pox. The chaudpisse.

"There are ways to prevent childbearing,” Jennet blurted, surprising her yet again. “Lady Appleton—” She broke off, embarrassed, then added in a mumble, “Potions and such."

Petronella resisted the wicked urge to trade preventives with this country goodwife. Here at the Sign of the Smock they'd found sponges soaked in vinegar to be most effective, though some of the girls also engaged in a bout of hard pissing after each customer left, since this was believed to prevent the spread of disease, as well. And Long Nell had always insisted that a large nutmeg, pickled in vinegar and thrust up into the whibwob, was the most certain way to prevent conception.

"Go back to Lady Appleton,” Petronella said instead. “Keep watch over her if you fear for her safety. Enlist the aid of other servants, for I sense they are all most loyal to her. But help her in her quest. Only when this villain is caught and executed will any of us be safe."

Jennet chewed on her lower lip for a moment, but in the end she was forced to agree. She was almost at the garden gate when she turned to give Petronella a long, assessing look.

"Did you choose,” she said, “you might set yourself up in the country as a gentlewoman and none would be the wiser."

Petronella decided, after a moment's thought, to consider that a compliment. She was still chuckling to herself when she went back inside the house. She jumped a foot when a deep, masculine voice, slightly accented, spoke from the shadows.

"She speaks the truth."

Hand to her lips, she faced Diego Cordoba. “You heard?"

"Only the last of it, from just inside this convenient window. Have you given thought to retirement? You might move away from Southwark. Start a new life."

With Diego, she might consider it.

Appalled by her weakness where he was concerned, Petronella forced a laugh. “Never! What would I do in the country? And gentlewomen lead dull lives."

He stepped closer, taking her in his arms. “I must leave England soon,” he whispered. “I will return to Spain. You could come with me."

Her heart began to beat faster, but she warned herself not to hope. He meant to take her along as his mistress, nothing more. She'd lose her independence and gain nothing. And ‘twas still possible Diego was the murderer. She could be certain only that he was not the person who'd been following her of late. Vincent would have known of it had Diego left the Sign of the Smock, just as he'd known when Diego moved in. Petronella's Spanish lover had not left the premises since he'd informed her she must hide him in her house.

Toying with the buttons on his doublet, she stared at his ruff, not daring to lift her head far enough to meet his eyes. “I would be a fish out of water in a strange land."

"You'd adapt,
mi corazon
. You already know some words of Spanish."

Love words, she thought. And a few crude expressions.

"You will be safe with me. And you will travel thither as the attendant of a royal lady. Your acceptance as a gentlewoman will be assured when we reach Madrid."

Startled, Petronella looked up. “Royal lady?” she echoed.

"Say you will go with me and I will tell you everything."

She was tempted. Oh, so tempted. “Does Sir Robert Appleton play a role in this?” she asked. “Is he to travel to Spain, too?"

With apparent reluctance, Diego nodded.

Separating herself from his embrace, she drew in a deep breath. “How can you ask me to go with you, if he goes, too? What if he is the killer? He'll be in Spain with us. Come next St. Mark's Day, he'll not have far to look for his next victim."

"I will protect you,” Diego swore, but her questions seemed to provoke second thoughts. When they adjourned to her chamber, he made love to her with great passion and thoroughness, but he did not mention again the possibility of taking her with him into Spain.

The second time Francis Elliott visited Catte Street, he came alone. He found Susanna in her garden, industriously weeding the raised beds. Lionel worked a short. distance away, similarly occupied.

"I have come for the medicine you promised my father,” he said.

She made a production of straightening, dusting off her apron, and removing her work gloves. That wayward curl had come loose from beneath her cap again and she poked it back into place with one bare finger. All this to cover her surprise at his words. She'd not thought, from the way Jerome Elliott reacted when asked about his son, that he would confide in the younger man. Shortsighted on her part, she realized now. Certes, he would broach the subject, if only to give Francis a moment's unease.