With a nod, Lucie went to fetch them.
Owen crossed to the door. A lad bowed to him, the movement releasing a puff of sparkling powder. Dust from a goldsmith’s workshop.
‘You’ve been sent by Robert Dale?’ Owen guessed.
Startled, the lad stuttered, ‘Y-yes, Captain. I am glad to find you here. My master begs to speak with you. At his shop, sir. As soon as you might, sir.’
‘Is he in danger?’
‘I am to say no more, but to implore you to come quickly.’
‘I will come.’
Closing the door Owen was barraged with questions he could not answer.
‘Robert Dale is not one to waste my time. I will return as soon as I may. Ambrose will accompany me. If there are other members of Carl’s company about, he can point them out.’
Lucie rose to follow him to the parlor, asking why the musicians were important to him.
‘I am not sure. Marian thought she saw the drummer Paul in the minster that night. Carl is watching Ambrose. I want to know why.’
‘Your eye warns you of them?’
She knew him well. ‘It does.’
‘Will we take her to St Clement’s tonight?’ she asked.
‘I think it best. I hope you need not come.’ He kissed her and called to Ambrose.
Outside, the shadows were already lengthening, a chill dampness rising. They must hurry.
FOURTEEN
An Unlikely Ally
Robert Dale led Owen and Ambrose to his office behind the bustling shop. Even here, Owen felt the heat from the fire over which the gold was softened.
Crispin Poole rose from a seat, leaning heavily on his cane as he greeted Owen and glanced with interest at Ambrose.
‘What is this?’ said Owen, looking to Robert.
‘You have Poole to thank for this meeting,’ said Robert. ‘Hear him out. He has convinced me that I have information you need. As does he.’
A lad brought in a flagon of wine and three cups, then apologized, noticing there were four to serve. After he delivered a fourth, Robert told him to close the door as he left.
‘We can speak freely?’ asked Crispin indicating Ambrose.
‘That depends,’ said Owen. ‘Are you here as Neville’s man?’
‘No. As your friend, and a concerned citizen.’
‘I just encountered one of your men escorting Dom Leufrid. The one with the scarred cheek.’
‘Diggs. You met him at the archdeacon’s house?’
‘You knew of the visit?’
‘Diggs says the woman who fled Cawood with the French spy is there. They planned to search the house.’
It was as Owen had feared.
‘The Nevilles want her,’ said Crispin. ‘They believe her to be someone of value to them. Their interest should concern you.’
‘It does.’
‘Good. We have little time. It might help me to know who she is.’
‘We? How do I know your men—’
‘I have told you, they are not my men. Never were. For a while I thought they might be useful, but they have become my bane, my curse. I sent them off to lodge with their fellows, my excuse my mother’s failing health.’
‘You serve Archbishop Neville.’
‘No longer, though he does not yet know. I thought it best to do what I could for you before speaking with him. So that I might still receive reports. I know Sir John has given you two days to find Ronan’s murderer. He’s keen to put the blame on the French spy.’
‘French spy?’
‘You know of whom I speak. The musician Ambrose Coates.’
‘He is no spy for the French,’ said Owen. ‘But you are right about Sir John’s threat.’
‘Who is she?’
Owen glanced at Robert. ‘What was it you wished to tell me?’
Fine, close work had ruined Robert’s eyesight, his habitual squint giving him the air of a man whose worries weighed him down. Yet Owen knew him to be blessed with a successful business and a happy family life. He peered at Owen, then Crispin, who, with a sigh of frustration, resumed his seat, plucking a cloth from his sleeve and wiping his brow.
‘It is about Ronan’s book,’ said Robert, ‘what he called his psalter.’
‘A prayer book?’
‘No. His distasteful humor.’
Owen sat down as well and poured himself some wine. ‘Go on.’
‘A few days before his death Ronan swooped into my shop with a nasty glint in his eyes, trailed by that clerk of his, Beck. He dared accuse me of being late to deliver a gold cross the new archbishop had ordered from me. I questioned his authority to represent His Grace, for he had taken no part in the original transaction, it was all done by messenger through His Grace’s secretary Leufrid, the usual empty flattery, currying favor with local merchants. Months ago Leufrid had sent a message, all apologies, His Grace had changed his mind and was cancelling the order. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but my questioning Ronan’s authority set him to spewing vile things. Vile. He accused my beloved wife Julia—’ Robert paused a moment to breathe and calm himself. ‘I left the room to fetch the message and the two halves of the tally from the desk of one of my clerks who was working with the accounts in the shop. When I returned Ronan did not at first notice me. He had brought out the little book in which he jotted down items – parchment sewn together with a leather cover, costly for keeping accounts, but that was the man, vainglorious, delighting in show. He called it his psalter, and indeed the outward appearance would fool one.’
‘So you had seen it before,’ said Owen.
‘Oh yes, as have my fellow goldsmiths and many other merchants. Since his death I have prayed that Ronan had not pushed one of my friends to his limit, fearing his ruin. He was devious, greedy, cruel, lacking all compassion. The sort of churchman that causes a crisis of faith in the most pious of worshippers.’
Owen looked to Crispin. ‘Did Ronan still represent Neville in such transactions?’
‘Ronan certainly believed so, though Leufrid disagrees. In truth, he said that the archbishop had never considered Ronan to be in his service.’
‘I was told that he recommended Ronan as a vicar
