“What do you know of it? You know something! Is it not enough that they took her from me, now they must come here in the dead of night like foxes and carry off her clothes?”
“What did they take?” I could not lean back for fear of toppling off the ladder; her face was as close as if she meant to kiss me.
“Her best gloves.” Finally she let go of me, as if to concede defeat, and gave a dry laugh. “Her only gloves, I should say. I keep all her things in a chest up here, you see.” She pointed to a rough wooden box in the corner of the loft. “I take them out and remember her. Sometimes I fancy they still smell of her, though my Tom says ’tis only mould and moths. He says I should have sold the good cloth years ago and burned the rest, but we have different ways of mourning. A mother doesn’t let go, you know.” I thought I saw the shine of tears in her eyes then, but it might only have been the fever of madness. She seemed to focus on me again and her face hardened. “So I keep vigil up here now, in case they come back for the rest. I won’t sleep neither. That’s when they’ll come, won’t they? In the night.” She raised her chin as if daring me to contradict her.
“Who do you think stole Sarah’s gloves?”
“The ones who killed her,” she hissed, through her remaining stumps of teeth.
“And who are they?”
“
She broke into a lunatic cackle and I was moved by pity for her state, though her words were sending my thoughts spinning, so similar were they to Tom’s. A missing pair of gloves. And a pair of women’s gloves found bloodied at the place of Sir Edward Kingsley’s murder. I needed to speak to Tom Garth again.
“You know Edward Kingsley is dead?” I said. The old woman stopped laughing abruptly and stared at me.
“Of course I know, you insolent fucking boy—I am not simple. My Tom told me. He should have been brought to public trial for what he did, but something is better than nothing. I hope the whoremongering devil suffered. I hope he suffers in Hell even now. But there are others must be punished for my Sarah.”
“Which others?” I asked, but her face closed up like a shutter and she gave only a low laugh, knowing and wicked.
“They will learn when their judgement day comes,” she muttered. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me as if noticing me for the first time. “Bread, you say?”
“It is downstairs.”
“I suppose you want money?”
It had not occurred to me to ask Rebecca if the bread was already paid for. But the old woman settled the question with a wave of her claw-like hand.
“I have no money here. Tell them to ask my Tom, he takes care of matters. Besides, I cannot leave Sarah’s clothes unattended.” With this, she scuttled on her hands and knees back across the straw to the corner where the chest stood and laid a protective hand over it. “Now get out of my house,” she added, though without malice.
I bade her good day and retreated to the ground with some relief. Poor Tom, I thought, glancing at the straw pallet in the main room. To live like this, with her, might drive any man to violence. I had been so distracted by the discovery of Sir Edward’s underground tomb, his tangled relationships with Langworth, Sykes, and Samuel, and the implications of his will that I had all but dismissed Tom Garth’s motive for murdering his sister’s former employer. Could it be that Fitch’s murder and Sir Edward’s were unconnected, and Sophia’s husband had been killed in a simple act of revenge, an act imagined and brooded over for years in this squalid room?
Rebecca, relieved of her onerous task, seemed lighter in spirit as we made our way back towards the market, chattering freely and swinging the empty basket at her side, walking a little too close to me and touching my arm often to accompany whatever point she was making. I heard but one word in twenty, my thoughts all caught up in what I had learned this past half hour. But as we neared the street corner that led to the marketplace, I came back to myself and brought the horse to a halt while we were still out of sight, conscious of how our appearance together would look to the busy goodwives.
“You should go on ahead,” I said, motioning briskly with my head. “It would not do for you to be seen with a suspected murderer.”
She twisted her fingers together and giggled. I was beginning to find this girlish simpering tiresome and grew impatient for her to be gone; once again I appreciated Sophia’s self-contained dignity and her disdain for such wiles as girls commonly use. The prospect of seeing her that night took on a sharper thrill as I remembered the graceful curve of her neck, the way she would turn her head and fix her silent steady gaze on me.
“You have done me a great service, sir,” Rebecca murmured, looking up at me from under her lashes. “I wish I could think of some reward.” This time she deliberately met my eyes and did not look away.
“Oh, I have had reward enough,” I said, pretending to be innocent of her meaning, and thinking of the two new nuggets of information I had gained from this detour. “The pleasure of meeting Mistress Garth, for instance. And your fascinating discourse on remedies,” I added hastily, seeing the girl’s face fall.
“Perhaps I shall see you again tomorrow?” she said, a hopeful note in her voice.
“Perhaps. It is a small town.” I smiled with what I hoped was polite detachment. Evidently this did not register, because she leaned forward on her tiptoes and planted a wet kiss full on my lips. Before I had time to react, she clapped a hand to her mouth as if scandalised by her own boldness, gathered up her skirts in both hands, and fled in the direction of the market. Left alone in the empty street, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and leaned back against the horse’s shoulder, smiling.
“Never the one you want, eh? Why is that, old friend?”
He snorted and shook his mane.
“You’re right. Human nature.” I slapped him gently on the side of his neck and led him onwards.
TOM GARTH CAME out to greet me at the Christ Church gate, surprise etched on his face.
“I heard you were arrested for murder,” he whispered, approaching and patting the horse on the shoulder. “Is it true you must stay here with Harry until the assizes?”
“Don’t worry, there is no case to answer,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “Where do I take this fellow?”
“All the way around the corona and past the guesthouses at the end, you will see the stable block.” He hesitated, wiping his hands on his tunic, and there was a nervousness in his demeanour. I noticed he had not asked me to surrender my weapon this time. “Are you not afraid? Will you send for a lawyer from London?”
“I will defend myself by showing the court the real murderer. But you are right, Tom—it is a fearful thing to be accused of murder.”
He looked at me for a moment without speaking, and it seemed that he blanched; he licked his lips and swallowed, as if his mouth had dried and I thought he was going to speak, but he merely nodded in agreement. I noticed his fingers plucking at the bandage he wore around his hand. I turned away; there were questions to be answered about his sister’s gloves and his own movements on the night of Sir Edward’s murder, but now was not the time. For now all I wanted was to get Samuel on the road and unburden myself to Harry.
The stables were built close up against the walls of the cathedral precinct behind the ruins of the old priory. Outside, a boy was waiting with a horse ready, saddled and harnessed. I explained that I was using Harry Robinson’s stall and was reassured that the waiting horse was indeed Harry’s and was awaiting his servant who would leave that evening. I gave the boy a groat and left my own horse in his care, but as I walked away I turned back and noticed a broad chestnut tree growing outside the precinct wall, its lower branches overhanging the roof of the stables. At the far end of the stable block, a set of wooden steps led down the outside wall from what I guessed was the entrance to the hayloft. So much for their great gatehouse tower and gatekeeper; it would be easy work for any fit man or boy to climb this tree, shimmy over the precinct wall, across the roof of the stable, and down into the yard. My spirits sank further at the thought; in that case, anyone could have entered the cathedral grounds the night Sir Edward was killed without having to pass under the nose of Tom Garth at the gate. But they would still have had to gain access to the crypt to take the crucifix he was battered with; that could not have been taken before dark or the dean would surely have noticed it missing when he checked the crypt and locked up for the night. Which led me back to the same conclusion: only someone with a means of entering the crypt at night could have killed Sir Edward, and if the sub-vault below the treasury was a secret means of access, I found it hard to see
