Face Down In The Marrow-Bone Pie Part 13

Chapter Twenty-Four.

At that same moment, Catherine Denholm watched with unbridled curiosity as the girl called Bess, now a serving maid at Appleton Manor, delivered into Matthew Grimshaw's hands at Denholm Hall a piece of folded parchment. He read it through, smiled to himself, and placed it on the desk in Randall Denholm's study. A coin changed hands, and Bess departed in great haste.

Hesitant, Catherine hovered in the doorway. She had almost decided to retreat when Matthew looked up and saw her.

"Catherine!" His delight was evident and he opened his arms. "My dear cousin, come and let me have a good look at you. I vow you become more like your sister every year."

"I am nothing like Jane," Catherine murmured, but she obediently entered the room and endured her cousin's welcoming kiss.

"How old are you now, my dear?"

"Fourteen, cousin."

"A woman grown. You'll be thinking of marriage soon, I warrant."

"I've time yet," she protested softly, but he did not seem to hear. As Matthew babbled on about Jane, Catherine stopped listening. It was a great waste of time, she felt, to pretend she was interested when she was not. Instead she let her cousin ramble on while she drifted toward the desk. When he was sufficiently distracted by the sound of his own voice, she took a closer look at the letter he'd been reading.

The last words inscribed were "From my lodgings in Paris, this eleventh of November, your devoted husband, Robert Appleton, Knight." Catherine would have recognized the Appleton crest even without the signature. She wondered what Sir Robert had written to Susanna, but resisted the temptation to read a personal message. Instead she plucked up the letter whole and secreted it in the placket in her skirt. Grimshaw never noticed.

Later she would decide if she could safely return her prize to Appleton Manor or if she would have to destroy it. Catherine did not understand why anyone would steal from their new neighbor, or think they could frighten her away with tricks, either. Her acquaintance with Susanna, brief though it was, had convinced Catherine that Sir Robert's wife was a strong-minded woman. To terrorize her would take far more than an eerie figure standing on the stairs and pretending to be a ghost.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

It was St. Catherine's Day, a full month after Mabel Hussey's return to Appleton Manor, before Susanna managed to make time for another trip into Manchester. It was not that the distance was so great. She simply had to look to the restoration of her husband's estate first.

Once again Susanna left Jennet behind and took Mark with her into town. Jennet was not pleased. She was beginning to have suspicions about Mark's sudden interest in visiting Manchester.

"Does she know that you met a young woman on your last visit?" Susanna asked as they neared the bridge across the river. She had no specific plan to further her inquiry by using Mark's acquaintance with Temperance Strelley, the girl who lived next door to the Inces, but she did not object to having him visit Temperance again, either.

"Nay, Lady Appleton. I'd not trouble Jennet with my private business."

"You must have hinted at something. She is most put out with you of late."

Mark only smiled with a smug, masculine superiority that made his mistress want to box his ears. Jennet deserved a few bad moments for the hard time she'd given Mark in the past, but he did not need to take such pleasure in taunting her. "I'll not have needless cruelty in my household," she warned before she let the matter drop.

"Shall I pay my visit to the Strelley house now or later, madam? It is market day. There's much to be bought for Appleton Manor."

"Have you a list?"

Mark tapped his forehead. "All in here, it is, madam. Safe for the nonce."

"And the cost?"

"They will send you bills, if you wish it, madam, or you might trust me to make payment."

Quickly calculating, Susanna delved into the leather pouch she wore at her waist. The purchases she knew of were many and varied, and would have to be made at a dozen different shops. Some, spices and cloth, she would purchase herself, but Mark would need sixpence apiece for the pigs. Fifty s.h.i.+llings for a hogshead of claret. Four s.h.i.+llings fourpence for a barrel of small beer. Oranges were three s.h.i.+llings tenpence for four hundred in Kent but might be far more dear in this remote place.

"What sell they in the shops near the spot where Oliver Ince has his butcher's stall?"

"South side of Conduit Place," Mark mused. A moment's thought and he had the answer. "On the north side they sell grain, crockery, wooden vessels and fruit."

"Good. Inquire there about the oranges and at the same time observe the butcher's boy, one d.i.c.kon by name. Strike up an acquaintance with him if you can, but be careful that Oliver Ince does not recognize you as my man." She handed over a sum of money and instructed Mark to meet her in two hours' time at the shop of a draper.

"The fish market is near Smithy Door, which is hard by the man's house. What if Ince is there instead?"

"Why, the better to question his employees. I mean, as you know, to go and speak with his wife while you seek out the lad. If Ince is there, 'twill make no matter."

She said the words with confidence, but in her heart Susanna hoped to find Edith Ince alone. There was still a chance, however slight, that Oliver was behind the death of the steward. He'd hated the man enough to kill him and it seemed suspicious to her that he'd taken in the scullion from Appleton and not troubled to mention that fact to her on her last visit.

No one, Susanna had long since realized, was very forthcoming. They were all hiding things from her. In order to get to the truth, she could very well end up uncovering every one of their small secrets. Matters would be much simpler if people only told the truth, but she supposed that was too much to expect. She was, after all, a stranger among them.

Oliver Ince was not at home. Edith smiled a welcome, inviting Lady Appleton in with an openness that was almost enough to make her seem innocent of any crime. Her expression was equally guileless when Susanna asked after d.i.c.kon.

"Oh, aye. Oliver did take him in. A good man, my Oliver." Responding to a cry from the cradle, she lifted the younger child out and began to nurse.

"'Tis strange no one mentioned to me that he'd once worked at Appleton Manor."

Edith blinked at her in surprise above the downy head of her small daughter. "But, Lady Appleton, you did not ask."

"Master Grimshaw knew I was looking for him," she said after a moment, silently acknowledging the rightness of Edith's point.

A disdainful sound told her what Edith Ince thought of him.

Susanna frowned. She had not asked the Inces about d.i.c.kon, but she had demanded information from the lawyer, and Grimshaw had first insisted he could not even remember the boy's name. When pressed, he'd recalled it but hinted the lad might have gone to family in Preston, which was some distance from Manchester. Had Grimshaw deliberately lied to her? Had he known d.i.c.kon was in Manchester all along, just as he'd known where to find Mabel Hussey?

"Did you know what became of the man, too? Adam Bone?"

"He were taken on as swineherd," Edith replied promptly. If she was trying to hide something, it was not that.

"I would speak with both of them," Susanna told her, "to learn all I can of what happened at Appleton Manor." Belatedly, it occurred to her that Adam Bone and the boy d.i.c.kon and Mabel, too, must have known where Edith was. How, then, did the rumor that she was Appleton's ghost get started?

The answer troubled her, for it had been Euphemia Denholm who had let her jump to that erroneous conclusion. To protect her late daughter's reputation? Perhaps. But something did not fit. The more Susanna learned about these people, the more confusing matters seemed.

"Oliver keeps the lad busy." There was the first sign of hesitation now in Edith's words. "We've naught to hide, and yet he will be angry, I fear, if young d.i.c.kon be distracted from his work. And he does not know anything. He'd have told me if he did."

"I'd still like to speak with him myself, if your husband will allow it."

Edith was silent for a long moment. The older child, awakened from a nap, wandered into the room, and for the first time Susanna looked carefully at him. It had been scarce two years since Oliver and Edith married. This was either a very big boy for his age, or she'd been breeding ere they wed. Through narrowed eyes she regarded the child more closely still, looking for any resemblance to the Appletons.

As if she followed her visitor's thoughts, Edith hastily divested herself of the baby, returning her to the cradle, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her son. "He's Ince's get, and make no mistake about that. Sir George never touched me."

"Now, Edith, it is common knowledge that Sir George had his codpiece all undone when he was found dead."

"Then he were relieving himself, or found a more willing woman after I fled."

No nervousness accompanied this statement. Her eyes did not s.h.i.+ft away. Her hands did not tremble. She believed what she was saying and Susanna believed it, too, even if it did complicate matters.

Had there been another woman there that night?

Mark was waiting for his mistress when she came out of the draper's shop, and took the packages that contained crimson satin at three s.h.i.+llings a yard and yellow kersey at four s.h.i.+llings sevenpence an ell.

"I need also to purchase eight pair of knitted hose," she told him as they began to walk toward a shop that carried such things.

Three s.h.i.+llings and fourpence changed hands. Once more in the street, Susanna asked Mark for his report.

"The boy knows nothing. He saw no ghost at Appleton. Nor any strangers about. Neither did he know Sir George."

"Did he watch Mabel prepare the marrow-bone pie?"

"No, madam. He was busy with his own ch.o.r.es."

Susanna frowned. Did it matter? Mabel hadn't added the poison, if there had been poison. Someone else had slipped that in. Or given Bexwith a poisoned root, convincing him it was candied eryngo. Ince? His wife? d.i.c.kon himself, already promised employment? If any of those three had, the lad would never admit it, not unless she had more than guesses to go on. Grizel's father? One of the Denholms? Grimshaw? Everyone seemed to have disliked Bexwith, but where was a strong enough motive to kill?

The next stop was for spices, and Susanna vented her frustration on the shopkeeper, who dared charge ten s.h.i.+llings and sixpence for a pound of cinnamon. A like amount of ginger was more reasonable, at three s.h.i.+llings and eightpence.

Susanna left their purchases at the inn where she would spend the night. She meant to attend church at St. Mary's on the morrow, then return to Appleton Manor, but first she had another task to perform. In Mark's company, she began the long walk to Collyhurst. It was only midafternoon, giving her ample time to confront Adam Bone.

He turned out to be a surly, sly creature, who answered questions with great reluctance. It soon became plain that the swineherd could tell them no more than young d.i.c.kon had. He did, however, deny he'd seen any ghost. Only a body and an hysterical serving wench.

Discouraged, Susanna returned to Manchester with nothing for her pains but sore feet and a lingering smell of pig. She debated paying an evening visit to Matthew Grimshaw, torn between the urge to confront him with the knowledge that he'd lied to her and an equally strong desire to avoid him altogether until she knew more.

"Where was Grimshaw when Bexwith died?" she murmured aloud.

"With Mistress Denholm," Mark replied.

At her invitation he was sharing a pot of ale with her in the common room at the inn, a situation that had earned them several curious stares and one look of outrage. She was the only women in the place, and though she was clearly of gentle birth, she was just as clearly treating a servant as an equal. People did not know what to make of either circ.u.mstance.

Mark's words took a moment to sink in, and even then she wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. "What did you say?"

Mark seemed surprised that she did not already know. "He visited Denholm Hall that day. Grizel told Jennet and she told me."

Bewildered, Susanna took a long swallow of her ale. "Why do you suppose he was there?"

Mark frowned. "Jennet did not say."

"Which means she did not think to ask." Susanna sighed as she reluctantly reached that conclusion. She would question Jennet when they returned to Appleton Manor, but she did not think there would be more to learn. Not yet.

"Madam," Mark said hesitantly. He ran one finger around the rim of his cup. "What if you are wrong? What if there has been no crime committed, after all? This could be no more than an old man dropping dead and a maid's runaway imagination."

"You think Grizel invented our ghost?"

"I think she is not so sure of what she saw as it first seemed. Jennet says she is oddly hesitant to speak of it, but that she came to Appleton Manor to visit without a qualm the last time her father wanted to measure the chapel. She was not as afraid as Jennet thought she'd be. I am thinking that the shock of finding John Bexwith dead may have addled her brain."

"Then how do you explain what we saw?"

"There is that."

"Yes. There is that."

Susanna said nothing more, but she was thinking hard. Had someone seen in the girl's fanciful story a means to accomplish some other end? The result of the rumor had been to leave Appleton Manor deserted. Had that been the intent?

Or had someone simply wanted to encourage Sir Robert to come north?

The latter idea alarmed her, but the more she thought about it the more sense it made. How had she altered matters, she wondered, by coming in his stead?

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Early in the morning on the first Sunday of December, Sir Robert Appleton presented himself at a modest country house just outside La Roch.e.l.le. The town was a stronghold of those with Calvinist leanings.

He was shown at once into the princ.i.p.al room, but it was not La Renaudie who waited for him there. A small, delicate female figure stood in a window alcove, shadowed by a burgundy colored velvet curtain that had been looped back just to her right. Behind her the diamond-paned leaded windows overlooked the cobblestone courtyard below. She had obviously been watching his arrival.

"Mademoiselle," he said with a deep bow.

He thought she smiled, but he could not see her face well enough to tell. Was she La Renaudie's mistress? She was not his wife, of that he was certain. And there was no sign of the elusive rabble rouser himself.

"Come," the woman said, speaking a charmingly accented English. "Services are about to begin. I think you will enjoy hearing our new French versions of some of the Psalms."

As she came into the light, Sir Robert saw that she was young, and very beautiful. Her dark hair and eyes were in stark contrast to pale, flawless skin. "How shall I call you, ma belle?" he inquired.

A faint smile flickered and was gone. "Diane," she said.

Two hours later, Sir Robert was no closer to knowing her ident.i.ty, but he had ascertained that she was a widow, and a wealthy one at that. Her household was run with an efficiency even Susanna would have approved, but with considerably more emphasis on luxury. The mysterious Diane was a hedonist, for all her claims to follow Calvin's teachings.

At long last, La Renaudie arrived for their meeting. He brought with him a secretary and a servant and, to Sir Robert's surprise, he did not dismiss Diane. Observing them together, Sir Robert concluded that his earlier guess had been correct. She was the man's mistress and appeared to be completely devoted to him. A great pity, Sir Robert thought. He had begun to hope the lovely Diane might be willing to provide him with a pleasant diversion during the night ahead.

Recalled to business, he listened with growing alarm as La Renaudie outlined his plans. There was an element of fanaticism in the plot that boded ill for its success. Sir Robert diplomatically declined to point out the flaws, for he had come only to listen and observe.

None of his impressions of La Renaudie were favorable. The fellow thought very highly of himself, refusing to entertain the slightest doubt that he would succeed. He based his certainty not only upon his own abilities but upon those of one he called only le chef muet, the silent leader. At the penultimate moment, he claimed, this powerful n.o.bleman would reveal himself and lead them to victory.

"How can I ask my queen's help without knowing the name of this eminent person?" Sir Robert asked.

La Renaudie was adamant. "Those who know are willing to face torture, even death, rather than reveal his ident.i.ty too soon."

Sir Robert could guess who the silent leader might be, but even if he was right, he had no faith in the outcome of the revolution La Renaudie seemed so sure would succeed. All the same, he demanded details. He was somewhat surprised to be given them.