Veil of Lies

the end of a life. Perhaps it is time to set old hurts aside.”

“In this family,” said Maude, “old hurts are never set aside. They are simply stored for future use.”

“This is absurd,” muttered Clarence, knocking back another drink of wine. “I want to know who killed Nick… and I want to congratulate the killer.”

Philippa stared at him aghast.

“No one knows who killed him,” said Crispin. “Not yet.”

Clarence and Lionel brooded from their separate places in the room: Clarence by the sideboard and Lionel sitting by his wife and glowering at Philippa.

Crispin turned to Lionel. “It has been a long time, I take it, since you set foot in this house.”

“Little has changed.”

“Quite true,” said Maude, running her finger along the imaginary dust on her chair’s arm. “And yet we have been doing all the talking. Nicholas has a wife. Apparently.” They all looked at Philippa. “We had quite given up hope of his ever acquiring one.”

“Is that a jab at me?” said Clarence over his shoulder.

“No, dear Clarence,” she said. “I suppose there is hope someday of your finding a wife. The world is full of God’s great miracles, after all.”

“Tell that harridan of yours to mind her own damn business,” he said into his bowl.

Lionel’s face flushed, but before he could bellow again, Maude interrupted. “Pay him no heed.” She waved a hand devoid of ornament. “We must find out about our dear sister.” Maude turned to her. “Phyllida—”

“Philippa.”

“Of course. Such a delightful name. Tell us of your family? Are they mercers?”

Philippa glanced at Crispin with such raw desperation that his mind frantically worked on a distraction. Before he could conjure anything, Philippa blurted out what surely should have been suppressed.

“No, we were never merchants. My family were servants. I was my master’s—I was Nicholas’s chambermaid.”

Maude screeched like a cat hurled from a rooftop and slumped in her chair. Lionel bellowed something unintelligible, and Clarence burst out laughing. “By my Lady!” he crowed. “That’s the best Nick’s done yet! Damn me! I wish I could shake his hand!”

“Be still, you idiot!” cried Lionel. “Someone get my wife some wine! You!” he pointed to Adam, face as white as the walls.

The steward ran to comply and Crispin watched the room dissolve into chaos. Why did Philippa do it? Surely she must have known what turmoil such an announcement would cause. He stared at her, tried to discern her expression, but all he could reckon was confusion and fear.

Adam returned and handed Lionel a cup of wine, which he gave to his wife. She held the back of her hand to her forehead and took several sips between moans.

“So,” said Lionel over his shoulder. “You’re only just a chambermaid.”

Philippa’s hands closed into tight fists. They trembled at her sides. “I am Nicholas’s wife. I have been for three years!” She dropped all pretense of a cultivated accent, releasing the thickness of her speech. “It ain’t my fault I was a servant or that he didn’t tell me nought about you! He didn’t tell me a lot of things.”

“Masters,” placated Crispin, “is this truly necessary? The man has been murdered. The culprit must be found. This is more important than rank.”

Crispin surprised himself when the words came out of his mouth. He always believed rank was paramount. All his past experience and his long years of resentment told him so. But with a dead man rotting upstairs, the murderer free and seeking the object hidden on Crispin’s person, it was obvious, even to him, that the greater danger lay in the unknown.

Maude propped herself up and glared at Crispin, her pinched face contracting even more. “Nothing is more important than rank,” she hissed. “There is the family name to consider. And children. Good God!” Her hands flew to her breast. “Are there any children?”

“Sadly, no,” said Philippa, regaining something of her old self. She raised her chin. “I think this is quite enough for one day. The funeral is tomorrow. Nicholas will be buried, then you can all return to your precious estates and trouble us no more. I, for one, can’t wait!”

“Is she tossing us out?” asked Clarence, face suddenly serious.

Crispin repressed a smile. “It would seem so.”

Lionel postured to his full height. “Not before I see my brother and bid him—”

Clarence chuckled into his cup. “Good riddance? Must make sure he’s dead, after all.”

Lionel sneered at his brother. “Be still, or you’ll find a knife in your back.”

Crispin maneuvered next to Lionel. “How did you know Nicholas was stabbed in the back?”

Lionel stared at Crispin with eyes bulging. Clarence gestured with his cup and splashed some of the wine on the floor between Crispin and Lionel. “Everyone knows that,” said Clarence. “We all heard about it.”

Lionel turned his attention toward Philippa. Her bravado faded under the onslaught of his dark expression. “Where is he?” Lionel asked.

“In the solar,” she sputtered with a look of horror. “But—”

“Let’s go and make an end to this, then.” He stalked from the room, his shadow stretching ominously behind him. Clarence put down his bowl and sneered over his shoulder at Crispin. Maude lifted herself from her seat, and seeing no one left but Crispin and Adam to view her performance, abruptly shook herself free of it and stomped after her husband.

Philippa ran after them up the stairs.

Crispin shook his head in disgust and took the stairs two at a time, passing over the solar’s threshold just as Philippa took her place behind her kinsmen.

Lionel held his nose and stood at Nicholas’s covered head. Clarence merely grimaced at the smell but Maude looked no different. “This is our farewell, Nicholas,” Lionel pronounced. “Whether you are in Heaven or Hell, well, that is between you and your Maker, for I shall not pray for you.” He grabbed the sheet and threw it back.

Philippa held her hand to her mouth. Whether or not it was to suppress a scream, Crispin did not know.

All the others were silent for a moment. But then Lionel looked at his wife and then his brother. As one, the three turned accusatory faces toward Philippa.

“This is not Nicholas Walcote!” Lionel declared. “Where is my brother?”

16

Crispin moved forward as if in a dream. She knew. A moat of anger welled around that thought.

He raised his voice above the angry chatter of the others. “If this man is not your brother, then who is he?”

“I don’t know. But I do know he is not Nicholas!” Lionel trumpeted.

“It’s been years since you’ve seen him. How can you be sure?”

“We know our own brother!” said Clarence.

Crispin angled toward Philippa. Her face collapsed into horrified fear. Tears ran in double streams down both cheeks and flowed to her jaw where they stayed in paralyzed drips, too afraid to drop away. “Philippa,” he said, perhaps more gently than she deserved. “Tell me.”

Gallows fear. That’s what Crispin called the expression she wore. He saw it on many a prisoner’s face before they were led to the gallows, and then as the rope dropped over their heads; that desperate realization that it wasn’t a nightmare, that it was real and happening now.

“I meant no harm,” she whispered. She twisted her red fingers together, and sucked the spilled tears at the edges of her mouth. “I meant no harm.”