With the crowd and all the curiosity it did Owen no good to watch the alleyways and shadows beneath the overhangs for someone too curious about him. Everyone was. But it gave him an idea. When he returned home he would ask Kate whether her siblings Rose and Rob might be willing to trail him about the city and make note of who watched him with too much interest. He knew he could rely on the twins’ creative cunning and discretion – they had helped him before. Fifteen and unremarkable in their dress and demeanor, they would be ignored by the likes of those tracking Ambrose or his companion. The perfect spies.
His thoughts returned to the problem of Ronan’s hiding place for the missing casket of valuables. The chest would be the obvious place to look. Had the vicar so trusted his fellows? Unlikely. Despite what Beck the weasel had said, Owen guessed that the missing casket held little of value, its purpose to foil a lazy thief. There had been no sign that someone had carried out a thorough search of the chamber. Had Beck been paid to make much of something of little value? Provide a diversion? For whom? It seemed to Owen the key to it all.
Climbing the outdoor stairs to Ronan’s rooms he felt an energy that defied his sleepless state. He found the door ajar despite the biting cold, Beck huddled on a stool just inside watching with sullen countenance as a one-armed man searched the chamber. Owen had forgotten about Crispin Poole, who now served Archbishop Neville as Owen had Archbishop Thoresby – or at least in his former capacity of spy for the archbishop.
‘Crispin.’
The searcher turned round. ‘Owen. I have been expecting you. Any news?’
‘Nothing yet. And you? Are you here on orders from Cawood Palace?’
A raised brow, in a face more suitable for a soldier than the merchant he had returned to York to become. No noticeable scars, but the life of a soldier was spent out in the elements, weathering a man’s skin. Crispin sank down onto the edge of the bed. ‘Is that where the Nevilles are?’ A large man beginning to take on weight, he was sweating despite the chill draft from the open door. ‘I’ve received no orders.’
‘Why are you here?’ Owen asked.
‘I might ask the same of you.’
‘The precentor went to the mayor requesting my services. I am charged with finding the men who broke the peace in the close last night, killing a vicar and a stranger.’
‘And drowning a third.’
‘That could be an accident. The fall might also have been unintended.’
‘Do you think that?’
‘That Ronan was murdered is not in question. And two others are dead.’ Crispin was Neville’s man. Owen must have a care.
Crispin pulled a cloth from his sleeve and mopped his brow. ‘Too many guild dinners of late. I need activity. This cursed snow.’
‘You have not answered my question. Why are you here, Crispin?’
‘Ronan worked for His Grace the Archbishop of York, as do I. His Grace will expect a full report of the incident.’
‘I will have Brother Michaelo prepare one for you.’
‘A generous offer. But His Grace will want my opinion.’
As would the archbishop’s brother Sir John. ‘So what have you found?’
‘Nothing. This one – Beck he calls himself – says a casket of valuables has been removed from the chest.’ Crispin glanced at the man huddled by the door as he nudged said chest with a walking stick. Owen had not seen him using that before.
Deciding it was time to acknowledge the weasel’s presence, Owen turned to him. ‘I hear you witnessed this theft.’
Beck looked up, startled. ‘Me?’
‘Why did you not stop him? Prevent his escape?’
‘I never said I witnessed it.’
‘You spoke with authority. We have taken a man into custody on your accusation. Are you now saying you saw nothing?’
‘I—’ A cringe, as if expecting a blow. ‘Not as such.’
Owen gave the man his fiercest one-eyed glare. ‘If I’ve allowed the murderer to escape while I rounded up an innocent man on your word, you will pay.’
‘You— But he was wearing that cloak, was he not?’ Beck gestured toward the bed, where it had lain. ‘The cloak Master Ronan wore yesterday. You have it. And he left a trail of melted snow on the floor – you saw it.’
‘The trail might have been made by anyone. Even you.’
‘Me? No!’
‘Why are you so certain Ronan wore that particular cloak last night? Did you watch him dress?’
‘No.’
‘I have seen one very like it elsewhere, also Ronan’s cloak. Can you tell me how you tell the difference?’
‘Two? But …’
‘Are you lying about serving as his clerk?’
‘No! I came to him midsummer.’
‘Yet you did not know of his second cloak?’
‘I did not dress him. I serve several in the Bedern.’
‘Tell me. What were your duties here?’
‘Errands, tidied the place – it needed little of that, fetched meals for him, received deliveries when he could not be here …’ His voice grew softer and softer.
‘What sort of deliveries?’
‘All sorts.’
‘The sorts of things you say were stolen?’
‘It was not my place to pry.’
‘Last night. Did you see someone come into the lodgings?’
‘I – I wasn’t here as such.’
So Ronan himself might have removed the casket. Owen walked toward the weasel, slowly. ‘Where were you last evening?’
‘I—’ Eyes locked on Owen’s good one, Beck rose and stumbled backwards, flattening himself against the wall.
‘You have wasted our time spewing false accusations.’ Owen continued to advance. ‘Why else but to permit the true murderer to escape? Unless you murdered Ronan.’ He caught
