They returned to the ground floor and to a small chamber not unlike the steward’s small space. Crispin little wondered why Nigellus had such a humble room, for the man didn’t have grand ideas and it likely never occurred to him that he could well choose one of the rooms on the first floor near his own bedchamber.

  It was as crowded with books and scrolls as the steward’s chamber, and there was barely enough room for them all to squeeze into.

  Jack shuffled through and perched upon the stool at the tall desk, grabbing parchment and pen. He gripped the quill little better than he had as a child, but his hand had significantly improved since those first frustrating days. He dipped, scraped off the excess into the ink pot and bent toward the leaf. Crispin peered over his shoulder as Jack sketched the Cobmartin manor house, with notations as to what room was what. ‘Now then,’ he said, crouching over the table. ‘According to the nine servants we interviewed – including the steward’s wife – they were approximately … here, here, and here.’ He wrote their occupations rather than their names in the appropriate places: the maid in the master’s chamber, the cook and the one scullion in the kitchens out in the back garden, the footman with the workmen – ten or so of them – on the first floor, the steward the same, the stableman in the stables, and the gardener in the garden working on the garden path, and even Susannah on the street. ‘You see. Unless someone here is lying – and they most assuredly are – then no one was near the steward’s room with enough time to get in it – assuming they had a key, and whereby St Paul’s garters could they have got one? They’d have to get in, find the scrolls – also assuming they could find them—’

  ‘They’d have to be able to read,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Right, sir. They’d have to, wouldn’t they? Master Nigellus, who amongst your servants can read?’

  ‘Well now.’ He put a hand to his shaven chin and rubbed. ‘The steward, of course. William. The cook, the footman … who else?’

  ‘The gardener and the stableman,’ put in Rykener.

  ‘You have a very literate household,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Nigellus thoughtfully. ‘My father and I … well. It was our indulgence that we wanted them to at least have a rudimentary knowledge. It is helpful, you see, for the running of a house. For ordering supplies and … such.’ But he must have realized while saying so that it meant that there was a wider expanse of suspects. He released a frustrated sigh.

  ‘Well, at any rate,’ Jack went on, ‘the culprit would have to get in here, find the scrolls, burn them sufficiently so they could slip out again and back to their place, and not get found out.’

  Crispin leaned an arm on the desk and scanned the names in their positions. ‘You’ve left someone out.’

  Jack wore an indignant expression. ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘William Roke. We didn’t place him.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Everyone turned toward the doorway. Roke himself stood there, discomfort flitting over his features.

  FIVE

  ‘A timely arrival,’ said Crispin, straightening.

  ‘Oh. Well, I had only just remembered something and thought it might be helpful.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Roke scanned all the faces staring at him. ‘I was only a child, you will recall. But I remember there being shouting and loud voices before my mother died. I remember a time when my father stormed into our room, my mother’s and mine. I was playing on the floor. “You’re behaving disgracefully!” he yelled at her. “What if I am?” she shouted back. And then I became frightened at their loud voices and I climbed out of the window and into the gardens. I could hear them still shouting as I left them behind. There was a trellis covered in vines and I used to hide there when the servants or others were angry with me or each other. It was a good place to hide. There was a burrow, you see, from some rabbit or badger. No one could find me there if I did not want to be found.’

  He finished speaking and had the look of a man who realized he might have said too much. He shuffled and looked down at his feet. ‘I don’t know whether it is helpful or not.’

  ‘Do you know what that disagreement was about?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘I don’t. Does a child ever truly know what the adults around him are saying?’

  ‘A fair point. Do you recall your parents often having such loud disagreements?’

  ‘It seemed so. But that might just be the memory of a child. I seem to remember …’ But he stopped, frowning.

  ‘You were saying, Master Roke?’

  ‘Oh. It’s just that … she and Master Justin also argued. My mother. Not loudly, but in hushed whispers. I came upon them once in a window alcove in the gallery.’

  ‘Master Justin the former steward?’

  ‘Yes, before Master Philip. My father was also antagonistic to him. And to the other man.’

  ‘What other man?’

  ‘Another. I think he was a workman. But I’m not certain. I don’t think he was a permanent part of the household, but I saw him a great deal. At least for a while.’

  ‘A workman?’

  ‘Yes. When Master Cobmartin senior was enlarging the north wing.’

  ‘A workman,’ Jack said significantly to Crispin. One who would know how to plaster a wall.

  ‘Your father argued with him as well?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him at the top of the gallery once, pointing his finger right into his face, and his own face was twisted in anger.’

  ‘But this is extraordinary,’ said Nigellus, shaking his head. ‘Wilfrid was known to be very accommodating, very mild-mannered.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Master Nigellus,’ said Jack, ‘but that was his servant face. What I mean is you’d act differently to your betters than you would to your equal. The servants’ hall can be … well. Sometimes you kept yourself armed at all times.’

  Crispin stared at him. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Not you and me, mind you. But in other houses. Just like lords would act with each other, and not in front of the Duke of Lancaster, for example. Like that, sir.’

  ‘Just so,’ said William. ‘A servant must act with a mild manner to his master or he will find himself without a master at all. That is well known.’

  ‘Well. My education has been lacking then,’ said Crispin, thinking. But he did recall his days at court, and yes, his fellow peers would have a more generous comportment with the kings and earls than they would among themselves. He supposed it was to be expected in the servants’ hall as well. After all, there was a hierarchy among the servants as there was at court. The lowest of the household – the scullion, he supposed – had no one to lord over but their own children.

  ‘I concede it,’ he said finally, giving a nod. ‘Wilfrid’s animosity toward his fellow servants might be the cause of his murder. You can only have so many harsh words for a man before he turns on you. But William,’ Crispin gathered his thoughts before carefully asking, ‘how did your mother die?’

  ‘She broke her neck, so they said. Falling down the stairs.’

  ‘The stairs in the foyer?’

  ‘Yes. They are wide, you see. Standing in the middle as they are. No railing to catch yourself if you stumble. I’ve stumbled on them many a time.’

  Crispin flashed back to his own mother who had died the same way, and how he’d been the only one to find her for what seemed like hours. She had still been alive, and he had held her hand as she died, the life leaving her eyes.

  He cleared his throat and the dusty memories with it. ‘I see. Where were you nearly an hour ago, before we arrived?’

  ‘Me? I was … let me see. I was in these rooms, trying to straighten them.’ He held open his arms in a gesture of futility.

  The room, however, was only steps away from the steward’s.

  ‘Jack, don’t you have something for Master Roke?’

  Jack’s face was a blank before his eyes widened in remembrance, and he reached for his pouch. ‘Oh aye! Here, Master Roke.’

  He pulled out the leather cord with the cross with the jewel and handed it over.

  William took it and stared at it. ‘What is this?’

  ‘I took it from your father’s … from your father. I thought you might want it.’

  ‘Oh. Indeed. It’s … just that …’

  ‘What is it, Roke?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘It’s just that …’ He slumped. ‘I don’t remember this. It’s a sad thing not to remember your sire except for his yelling.’

  ‘You were young. Surely you can’t be expected to recall every memory.’

  He turned it over and over in his hands. ‘It was his. That’s all that matters.’ He clutched it tight in his fist. ‘Thank you for this, sir.’ He bowed to Jack. ‘Is there anything more you want of me?’

  ‘No, Roke. That’s all for now.’

  They watched him leave, and as soon as he had, Crispin turned quickly to Jack. ‘He could have burned the scrolls. He could be protecting someone.’

  ‘Someone who might be dead. The old steward?’

  ‘Yes. Dammit. If only we knew what those scrolls said.’

  Nigellus rubbed his hands in a nervous gesture. ‘The death of his mother troubles me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispin. ‘This so-called mild-mannered man might have had a temper and he might have pushed her down the stairs.’

  ‘It’s horrible to contemplate,’ said Nigellus. ‘But I have tried many a case where a husband had done worse. Cruel, cruel things have been done to men’s wives. I shouldn’t say it, but I am glad they were all hanged.’

  ‘Not your clients, I hope,’ said Crispin.

  ‘What a tangled tale,’ Rykener lamented, striding through the small room, sunlight on his shoulders. ‘Such things happening all around the Cobmartin family, and none the wiser.’

  Crispin nodded, eyes absently roving over the books and parchments. ‘But the servants would know.’ He flicked a glance at Jack. ‘The servants always know.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to that cook again. Still. It’s a diabolical and carefully planned murder. Might the cook know of this “other man”, this workman?’

  Jack blew out a breath and scrubbed at his ginger curls. ‘Nothing for it but to ask him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispin. ‘I can’t help but think we are missing something crucial.’

  ‘Shall we call him forth again?’ asked Nigellus.

  ‘No. Jack and I shall go to him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nigellus looked to Rykener and Crispin offered them a smile.

  ‘You may get back to your own work. Jack and I are on the trail.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you, Nigellus?’ said Rykener, rushing to the man and grasping his hand. ‘I told you we needed Crispin Guest. He’ll solve it.’

  Crispin had his doubts, but he said nothing as he ushered Jack out of the room. ‘How are we ever going to solve this one, master?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack.’ He strode over the tiled floor before pushing the heavy door to the back courtyard open. ‘We might get lucky. But it seems – with so many passing years – that it might prove impossible.’ They walked through a garden, its last vegetables and herbs bravely clinging to dying vines. He passed a fragrant trimmed ball of rosemary before stepping onto a stone path that led to the kitchen building. The garden seemed deader and less cared-for than it should have been, he thought on second glance. He didn’t recall his gardens looking this poorly when he had his estates in Sheen.

  ‘But I don’t like not finding justice for the victims,’ he said.

  ‘Poor Master Roke.’ Jack made it to the door first, grasped the iron ring, and hauled it open, allowing Crispin to stride through first. ‘I can’t even imagine what he might be thinking. He might never know who killed him.’

  ‘Pray that we will find some answers.’

  ‘I always do, sir.’

  Another archway and they passed through to the kitchen. It was smaller than Crispin expected, but after all, even as big a house as it was, there were few inhabiting it. Two masters and ten servants. Crispin’s old estates were four times the size and there were three times as many servants … and all for a single lord: him.

  The cook and scullion were there, preparing the dinner. They did not notice Crispin’s or Jack’s presence at first. They stood there a while, watching the furious work of cook and servant. Until the scullion whipped about and plunged toward a shelf only to be blocked by the two of them. He let out a yelp that made the cook turn from his bubbling kettles over the fire.

  ‘Master Guest!’ he said, brandishing a long spoon like a weapon.

  ‘Master Robert. I had some additional questions.’

  He grumbled and clutched the spoon. ‘Well then? The kitchens are a busy place.’

  ‘Forgive my intrusion. But do you recall when Wilfrid Roke was the varlet here if he had many loud disagreements with his wife?’

  His indignity at being interrupted deflated. He lowered the spoon and put his hand to his chin. ‘Well now. If I do recall at all … yes. Especially those last months before she … before she died.’

  Crispin stepped closer and spoke more quietly. ‘Master Robert, do you believe there is any possibility that Madam Roke might have died from … misadventure?’

  The cook glanced back at the scullion busy chopping vegetables. ‘There was no proof, mind you. But I have to say, it did cross the minds of the servants here at the time.’

  ‘Did no one talk to the sheriffs or the coroner?’

  ‘We all thought … well, if the sheriffs or coroner did not bring it up, then there was naught to it.’

  Crispin kept his growl to himself. How many crimes had gone unpunished because those who might have been witnesses were afraid to come forth? ‘Would you have characterized Wilfrid Roke as “mild-mannered”?’

  ‘He was a good man, good at his work. No one had a harsh word to say about him. He could be jealous of his wife, however.’

  ‘Had he cause to be?’

  ‘Rumors, Master Guest. But rumors can be fatal.’

  ‘Were they fatal in her case?’

  The cook’s brows lowered over his eyes. ‘I have never voiced that opinion. But it was possible. Anything is possible. But it was so long ago.’

  ‘And yet you seem to remember it well.’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Do you recall any servant or workman who seemed to pay Madam Roke particular interest?’

  Robert narrowed his eyes in thought. ‘Well … now that I think on it, there was one man. Mind you, the work was extensive, building a whole wing as they did. So the workmen were present for some years. I seem to recall one man in particular. Dark-haired, he was, and handsome. Everyone remarked on it. What was his name? Thomas. Yes, Thomas was his name.’

  ‘And his surname?’

  ‘That is much harder to dredge up from the past, Master Guest. Let me think on it. But he was London born. His people were from Friday Street.’ He chuckled. ‘Funny that I should recall that and not the knave’s name.’

  ‘Names can be harder to remember,’ said Crispin. ‘When it was assumed Wilfrid Roke ran away with the household relic, what did you think of that?’

  ‘I was shocked. Everyone was. He took to his vocation sincerely. No one could imagine what got into his head.’

  ‘Yet it might have turned out not to be the case.’

  ‘Yes.’ He tilted his head upward and stared into the rafters. ‘I suppose … I am gratified that it wasn’t so in the end. What I mean to say is …’ He rubbed his calloused hand up and down his white beard-stubbled cheek. ‘I’m not happy he’s dead, mind you – the saints bless him – but I’d be happier knowing he was no thief. Was he a thief, Master Guest?’

  ‘It is too early to tell. What of the missing maid at the time? Ardath?’

  ‘Once we thought Wilfrid had made off, we assumed again that it was to meet with her.’

  ‘Is she alive today, in London?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Master Guest. Never heard a word about her since.’

  ‘I thank you, Master Robert. I shall not interrupt you again.’

  ‘I will think on the workman’s surname.’ He ran his other hand up the spoon’s shaft. ‘I didn’t mean to be surly to you, sir. It’s just it’s busy in the kitchens. But I would see someone pay for poor Wilfrid’s death.’

  Crispin nodded to him in dismissal and motioned to Jack as they left the kitchens. Outside in the garden, Crispin paused. ‘I believed him,’ he said, gazing at the borders of thinning blooms and carefully coifed trees.

  ‘I do, too, master. It’s as I reckoned.’

  ‘Yes. It’s going to be damnably hard to find any further clues. Why don’t you walk the grounds for a while longer with your list? I’ll take my leave now and make my way back home. But, er, don’t look for me too soon.’

  ‘Aye, master,’ he said, cocking his head.

  Crispin left the garden and retreated through the house. He looked for Nigellus or John, but not seeing them, he left without word.

  The fact of the matter was standing in the kitchens made him think of scullions and of one in particular from so long ago. Philippa Walcote had been a scullion in her master’s house, and had risen in ranks to marry him, though the first Master Walcote turned out to be an imposter. She married the brother of the one he was impersonating, but not after first asking Crispin to marry her. He had cursed himself hundreds of times over the years for turning her down. He hadn’t known he would spend a decade and more mourning that decision.

  And so he naturally found himself on Mercery looking up at the Walcote manor house, with its gatehouse and walls around it. The trees were larger since the last time he’d been there. He had studiously avoided the street, tried not to be reminded, though he saw Christopher enough.

  He had no intention of going to the gatehouse where the porter sat under the arched portico. But a voice behind him startled him almost to the point where he drew his blade. It was a good thing he hadn’t.

  ‘Philippa! I mean … Madam Walcote.’

 

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