Cruel As the Grave

5

LONDON

April 1193

Eleanor gazed down impassively at the scrap of parchment. "You are sure this came from Durand?"

Justin felt again that surge ofair on his face as the blade buried itself in the door. "Very sure, Madame."

William Marshal was standing several feet away, waiting at a discreet distance until his queen had need of him. When Eleanor glanced in his direction, he moved swiftly toward her. "Madame?"

"John is at Windsor."

"I'll see to it, my lady."

To Justin's surprise, that was all. After that terse exchange, Eleanor turned away abruptly, crumpling Durand's message and letting it fall into the floor rushes at her feet. Justin hesitated, then fell in step beside William Marshal as he strode toward the door.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, surprising himself by his willingness to interrogate one of the queen's justiciars. But he was done with fumbling around in the dark; what he didn't know could get him killed.

Marshal seemed to take it for granted that he was entitled to ask such questions. "I will go to Windsor, demand that John surrender the castle to the queen and the justiciars."

"And if he refuses?"

"Then we shall lay siege to it."

Justin considered that possibility. "And once you've captured the castle, what then, my lord? What will be done with Lord John?"

Marshal gave him a sidelong smile. "I would to God I knew, lad," he said, and Justin nodded slowly. How did they punish a man who was likely to inherit the very crown he was now trying to usurp?

~~

"Are you sure you know where we're going, de Quincy?" Luke swerved to avoid a wayward goose. "And what of Agnes? Ought she not to be coming with us?"

"She was summoned to the Astons' house early this morn to tend her sister. She left word with Nell that she'd wait for us there." Justin shaded his eyes against the bright glare of noonday sun and whistled for Shadow, who was foraging in the street's center gutter. "She said their shop is on Friday Street."

"Is the sister ailing?"

Justin shrugged. "Even the most stout-hearted soul might well be undone when murder is suspected, and Beatrice seems frailer than most. Nell says she takes to her bed whenever a family crisis looms."

"And they'll be looking to you as their savior. What happens when you cannot deliver all that Nell promised?"

Justin shrugged again. "Mayhap we'll get lucky and prove the killer is not one of the nephews, after all," he said, although without much conviction; it was hard to argue with Luke's jaded insistence that in most killings, the victim's loved ones were the logical suspects.

"Well, you'll have to catch the killer without me. I thought I'd head for home on the morrow."

Justin was sorry, but not surprised. As much as he'd have liked Luke's help, he had never expected the deputy to remain much longer in London, not with duty and Aldith both pulling him back to Winchester.

Luke glanced in his direction, then away. "I was thinking I'd stop over at Windsor. If there is going to be a siege, the sheriff of Hampshire will be one of those summoned. It makes no sense to go all the way to Winchester, only to have to come back again straightaway."

Justin turned to stare at him. Luke's logic sounded forced to him, the reasoning of a man who — for whatever reason — was not that eager to go home. Was his quarreling with Aldith as serious as that? Before he could respond, Luke suddenly grabbed his arm.

"Do you see that woman in the green gown? She is about to pluck a pigeon … Ah, and there he is."

Justin saw nothing suspicious about the woman in question; she was young and pretty and respectably dressed, her gown of good wool, her veil of fine white linen. She was carrying several bundles, one of which slipped from her grasp as Luke's designated "pigeon" crossed her path. When he gallantly retrieved it, he was rewarded with an enchanting smile, and within moments, he was insisting that he tote the rest of her parcels for her.

Watching with a knowing grin, Luke nudged Justin with his elbow. "Now the hawk swoops down on our pigeon's money pouch," he predicted, nodding toward a burly youth in a pointed Phrygian cap, who was striding purposefully across the street, apparently oblivious of the couple in his way. The victim was mindful only of the young woman clinging to his arm and a collision seemed imminent… until Luke lunged forward, calling out in a loud, jovial voice sure to turn heads, "Is that you, Ivo? By God, it is!"

The victim looked puzzled as this boisterous stranger bore down upon him. The stalker veered off, was soon swallowed up in the crowds thronging the Cheapside. The woman frowned, recoiling as Luke draped a friendly arm around her shoulders. "But this is not Berta. Ivo, you sly dog!"

"I'm not Ivo! I've never laid eyes upon you … wait, lass!" This last plea was addressed to the woman, who'd snatched back her parcels and was already moving hastily away. Disappointment finding expression in anger, the man glared at Luke. "You oaf, you scared her off!"

"Be glad he did," Justin interjected, "for he thwarted her partner from lifting your money pouch."

The man's hand went instinctively to the pouch. Reassured to find it still swinging safely from his belt, he glanced dubiously from Justin to Luke. After a moment to mull it over, his scowl came back. "A likely story," he scoffed. "I know women right well and that little lass was no thief. But the pair of you look like you were born for the gallows. You were the ones trying to steal my money, not her!" Backing away, he flung a threat over his shoulder about summoning the Watch and then strode off indignantly, shoving through the press of interested spectators.

Justin and Luke stared after him in astonishment, but as soon as their eyes met, they burst out laughing. "Well," Luke said, with a grin, "now you know why I was so suspicious of you from the first moment we met. You've got a cutthroat's look to you, for certes!"

"He thought we both looked like outlaws," Justin reminded him. "How did you know they'd planned a theft?"

"I saw the wench and her man signaling to each other once they picked out their quarry, the same hand signals I've seen cutpurses use back in Winchester." Luke shook his head in mock regret and gave Justin a playful shove. "Devil take me if I foil any more crimes in this accursed city of yours, de Quincy. You Londoners are an ungrateful lot!"

Justin pushed him back and they began to laugh again… until a voice said coldly, "Are these the men you recommended, Agnes?"

The words themselves might be neutral, but the tone dripped disdain. Justin and Luke swung around to stare at the man regarding them with evident disapproval. He was of medium height and stocky build, with reddish hair sprinkled with grey, and eyes even greener than Luke's. Agnes was half hidden behind his broad-shouldered body; all they could see was her face, scarlet with embarrassment.

"I am Humphrey Aston." He flung the name out as a challenge. "When you did not arrive on time, we went to look for you." He left unsaid the rest of the sentence, the unspoken accusation: that they'd been engaging in tomfoolery whilst he'd been kept waiting. The message was clearly conveyed, though, in the pursed lips, the frigid eyes.

By the time he'd stopped talking, Justin had decided that Humphrey Aston was the last man in Christendom deserving of his help. But Agnes was mouthing a silent "please" and so he resisted the urge to turn and walk away. "I am Justin de Quincy," he said coolly, "and this is Luke de Marston, the undersheriff for Hampshire."

Humphrey acknowledged the introductions with a grudging nod. "My wife's sister thinks you can help us. What I want to know is how much that help will cost.

It had never occurred to Justin to charge a fee. He started to say that, but his dislike of Aston was too strong. "That depends. What is a son worth to you?"

His attempt to rattle the older man failed; Humphrey didn't even blink. "Which one?"

Luke swore softly. "Come on, de Quincy. Why waste our time?"

Justin shook his head, feeling a sharp thrust of pity for Humphrey's sons. "You could not afford me," he said. "I am doing a favor … for Agnes."

Humphrey reddened, then looked balefully at Agnes, as if Justin's insolence was somehow her fault. "We'll talk at home," he said at last, turning on his heel. Justin patted Agnes consolingly on the shoulder, blocked Luke's escape, and they followed, reluctantly, but they followed.

The mercer's shop fronted onto Friday Street, with the family quarters above. Humphrey Aston's prosperity was such that he'd been able to afford a hall, set at a right angle to the shop, extending back along the property line. It was here that he led the men, bypassing his shop and entering by a side gate that opened into a crowded courtyard. His family was gathered in the hall, seated at a wooden trestle table. They'd been talking among themselves, but fell silent at the sight of Humphrey, appearing more apprehensive than relieved by the patriarch's return.

Beatrice Aston was younger than her husband, somewhere in her forties. She probably had been quite appealing in her youth, for she still retained a faded prettiness. Coiled blond hair shone beneath a gossamer veil, and her eyes were wide set and as blue as cornflowers. But any assurance she'd ever possessed had been stripped away, leaving her insecurities and anxieties Painfully abraded and exposed. Although she did her best to make Luke and Justin welcome, she kept glancing toward Humphrey, as uneasy about incurring his disapproval as the timid little maidservant who served them wine and wafers.

Justin could not help sympathizing with Humphrey's cowed wife; he would have sympathized with anyone unlucky enough to live under the same roof with the domineering mercer. But his interest was much greater in the Astons' two sons.

Geoffrey was by far the handsomer of the two, with his mother's fair hair and deep blue eyes. He showed the poise expected of a firstborn son, the family favorite. He did indeed have a heartbreaking smile, as Nell had claimed, although it seemed to surface now from habit, never reaching his eyes. Justin had wondered if he'd be too smug and spoiled to realize the danger he faced; clearly that was not the case. Geoffrey was doing his very best to appear calm and optimistic, but he could not sit still for more than a few moments and his eyelids were faintly swollen. Had he shed tears for the peddler's daughter … or were they all for this calamity that threatened to engulf his family?

The younger son, Daniel, had inherited his father's height and build and color. He had an untidy mass of curly red hair, wary green eyes, and a square-cut face filled with freckles. Unlike his restive, edgy brother, he was unnaturally rigid, his the intensely focused stillness of an animal caught in a trap, awaiting discovery. Geoffrey's greeting had been effusive and heartfelt; Daniel's terse to the point of rudeness. Geoffrey might welcome their intercession; Daniel obviously did not.

Once the introductions were over, there was an uncomfortable silence. Justin glanced toward Luke for guidance, but the deputy was amusing himself by tossing bits of wafer to Shadow, much to Humphrey's smoldering annoyance. Justin took a deep breath and plunged in. "Suppose you tell me of the day Melangell died."

He'd been addressing Geoffrey, but it was Humphrey who answered. "We've already been over this with the sheriff's serjeants. We know nothing of this girl's death. She was most likely killed by a disgruntled customer." Seeing Justin's lack of comprehension, he said impatiently, "She peddled more than the cheap goods on her father's cart. She was a harlot, plain and simple, and I do not doubt that her whoring brought about her death."

Geoffrey's head jerked up. He seemed about to speak, but then subsided, his shoulders slumping. Daniel glanced up, too, giving them a brief, unsettling glimpse of a white-hot rage. But he also kept quiet. Melangell's defense came not from either of the young men said to have been her lovers. It was Agnes who spoke up, nervously, for she, too, was intimidated by her brother-in-law. Yet this plump, placid barber's wife had a strong sense of fair play, strong enough to give her the courage to lodge a timorous protest.

"I do not…" She hesitated, coughing to clear her throat. "I do not believe that Melangell was a whore. She was flighty and reckless at times, yes, but not wicked-"

"What do you know of evil?" Humphrey snapped. "What do you know about anything at all? This peddler's chit was a wanton, as any man with eyes to see could tell, strutting about in her beads and her whore's scarlet, bold as can be and shameless, exposing herself to the stares in the street and laughing at the leers and jests-"

Justin had heard enough. "Be that as it may, we've gone astray. I did not ask you about her morals or the lack of them. I need to find out how she passed her last day. Can you help me with that, Master Aston? If not, I'd suggest that you let your sons speak for themselves."

Humphrey was not accustomed to being interrupted. His mouth fell open and he stared at Justin, ignoring his wife as she reached over and placed a placating hand upon his arm. But there was fear behind his bluster, and it won out. As much as it galled him to admit it, he needed Justin's help. "I did not see the girl that day," he said curtly.

Justin glanced then toward Geoffrey. "Did you?"

Geoffrey seemed startled to find himself suddenly the center of attention, but he answered readily enough. "No, I did not." He looked from Justin to Luke, saw their skepticism, and repeated his denial. "It is true I sometimes met her in the churchyard. It was close to our shop.. " This time his gaze flicked toward his father. "But not on that day. The last I saw of her was on Tuesday, two days ere she … she died." He kept his voice level, but he swallowed hard and his lashes swept down, veiling his eyes.

"And you?" Justin swung around to face Daniel. "We know you met with her. There are witnesses willing to swear you were quarreling on Cheapside earlier in the day. Suppose you tell us what that quarrel was about."

Daniel's eyes slitted. "I do not remember."

Justin did not believe him. It was obvious that his father did not, either. "I warned you," Humphrey said ominously, "that your memory had better improve, did I not?"

Justin looked from the sullen boy to his belligerent father, then over at Geoffrey, flushed and unhappy. Beatrice daubed at the corners of her eyes with a table napkin, but she did not attempt to mediate between her husband and son. She seemed to Justin more like a bystander than a member of the family. He'd always mourned the loss of his own mother, who'd died giving him birth. For the first time, he realized that death was not the only means of losing a mother. When his gaze met Luke's, the deputy jerked his head sideways. Justin agreed wholeheartedly; they needed to get out of there.

Rising, he said, "You've given me enough for now. I will see what else I can find out about this crime and get back to you." Adding, as if in afterthought, "I would like Geoffrey and Daniel to accompany me to the churchyard where these trysts were held."

Humphrey opened his mouth to object, but both his sons jumped to their feet so hastily that they forestalled him. Their departure was swift, almost an escape, and within moments, they were standing together out in the street in front of the mercer's shop.

Geoffrey waved to a neighbor, then turned to face Justin and Luke. "We'd best start walking," he said. "My father will soon be out to watch for us. We can show you where the church is, but I'd rather not go into the churchyard. I do not want to see where she died and I am sure Daniel does not, either. I thought — hoped — your request was merely an excuse to talk with us alone."

He looked at them quizzically and Justin found himself responding to the other youth's forthrightness. "You're correct," he admitted. "I did think that we'd do better on our own."

Geoffrey nodded. "I did not kill her, Master de Quincy. My brother and I are innocent."

Geoffrey sounded sincere. Justin wanted to believe him, but he suspected that the gaols were probably filled with killers who could sound no less convincing. Glancing toward Daniel, who'd remained silent so far, he said, "What about you, Daniel? Has your memory gotten any better?"

Daniel hunched his shoulders, staring down at his feet. "I've nothing to say to you."

"You'll talk to us if we take you down to Newgate Gaol," Luke said brusquely. "Make no mistake about that, lad."

It was obvious that Luke was not impressed with the younger Aston son. Justin wasn't much taken with Daniel, either. But he wanted to be fair and it was likely the boy's surly defiance was born of fear. "We cannot help you, Daniel, unless you cooperate with us."

"Help me?" Daniel echoed, not troubling to hide his disbelief. "How stupid do you think I am?"

"That remains to be seen," Luke drawled. "Were you stupid enough to let yourself become besotted with a young Welsh whore? Were you stupid enough to kill her when she rejected you?"

Luke's provocation was calculated — and effective. Geoffrey frowned, protesting, "That is not fair."

Daniel's reaction was less controlled and more revealing. His face twitched as if he'd taken a blow. "Damn you, she was no whore!"

"Your father says she was," Justin pointed out, feeling as if he and Luke were dogs baiting a bear.

"My father …" Daniel choked up, spat out an unintelligible obscenity, and bolted, running as clumsily as a young colt, a boy who hadn't yet grown into his own body. They watched until he ducked into an alley off the Cheapside, none of them speaking. Geoffrey was pinioning his lower lip, showing even white teeth, his eyes conveying mute reproach. He stood his ground, though, awaiting his turn.

"Who is right?" Justin asked abruptly, "your father or brother? Was Melangell a whore?"

"No," Geoffrey said, showing a prickle of resentment, "she was not. She liked men and she took her pleasures where she found them. But she was no whore."

"Did you kill her?"

"No, I did not… and neither did Daniel."

"Did you love her?"

Geoffrey started to speak, stopped. "I cared about her," he said, for the first time sounding defensive. "I tried to be honest with her, told her about Adela.. that is the girl I'm to wed. At least I was until this happened." His smile was rueful. "When we were negotiating what I'd be bringing to the marriage, not once was the suspicion of murder mentioned."

Geoffrey paused then, waiting for questions that did not come. "Is there anything else you want to ask me?" When they shook their heads, he smiled again, this time politely. "If you're done, then I'll be off. I ought to see if I can find Daniel."

"Go on," Justin agreed, adding as Geoffrey turned to go, "I do have one last question. Do you know where Melangell is buried?"

Geoffrey was taken aback. "I… I do not know," he stammered. "I could not attend her funeral. My father … well, you heard him. He'd never have stood for it…" His voice trailed off. He'd only gone a few feet when he stopped. "She should have been buried in Wales," he said softly, "for she loved it so …"

"Why," Luke asked, as they watched him go, "did you ask that?"

"I was curious," Justin said. "I wanted to know if he mourned her."

"And do you think he does?"

Justin whistled for Shadow, who was frisking happily after Geoffrey's retreating figure. "Yes," he said, "I think so."

Luke arched a brow. "And does that eliminate him as a suspect?"

"No," Justin said, somewhat regretfully, "probably not."

Luke grinned. "By God, de Quincy, there is hope for you yet. So… now what?"

"We go," Justin said, "to find her family."

~~

Jonas had told them that the peddler, Godwin, rented a room on Wood Street, close by Cripplegate. As they expected, he was out selling his wares; even the death of a daughter did not lessen the need to pay rent and buy food. The landlord was loquacious, though, especially after Justin took out his money pouch, and cheerfully shared what little he knew about the peddler and his family. Godwin had been living there since their arrival in January, a decent sort who kept to himself and paid his rent on time and tried, without success, to keep Melangell from running wild.

Surprisingly, the man's eyes filled with tears at the mention of the dead girl's name. A sweet lass, he said mournfully, with bright eyes and a laugh as rich and dark as honey. She'd flirted with every man who crossed her path, wheedled scraps from the butcher to feed an army of stray cats and dogs, played childish pranks, and once climbed out of the window on a knotted blanket when her father locked her in their room. "The whole neighborhood wept for her," he said, "God's Truth, they did. She was good-hearted, was Melangell. You find who hurt that little girl. Find him and make him pay."

~~

It took the rest of the afternoon to track the peddler down. They finally found him at Billingsgate, trying to sell his goods to sailors as they came off the ships docked in the basin. Godwin's rickety cart and aged, cantankerous mule offered mute testimony to their owner's hardscrabble past, as did the man himself.

According to the landlord, Godwin believed he'd lived through about forty winters, or so Melangell had claimed; she'd been as free with their secrets as her father was sparing. By the look of him, though, Godwin could easily have carried another decade on his stooped shoulders and lanky, lean frame. His hair was brown and long, somewhat matted, his beard bushy, his eyes deep set and dark, as opaque as marble and as unyielding.

"I do not understand," he said, speaking with the slow, cautious deliberation of a man more comfortable with silences. "Why do you want to talk aboult my girl's death? Did that serjeant send you?"

Justin did not know how to answer him. He could not very well admit he'd been engaged to clear the chief suspects in Melangell's murder. Yet he was reluctant to lie to this man; if he could not share Godwin's grieving, at least he could respect it.

Luke had no such scruples. "I am the under-sheriff," he said, conveniently forgetting to clarify that his authority was rooted in another shire. "I wanted to go over what you told my serjeant."

Godwin was quiet for a moment. "That serjeant of yours did not seem all that interested in what I had to say."

He had to be talking about Tobias, the serjeant first called to the scene; whatever Jonas's failings, he was nothing if not thorough and would give a peddler's daughter the same diligence due the highborn. "Well," Luke said smoothly, "another serjeant will be conducting the investigation from now on, a man named Jonas. I think you'll find him more obliging."

Godwin smiled dourly, for a lifetime's experience had taught him how improbable it was that the authorities would ever be "obliging" to the likes of him. "I told the other one that I knew who murdered my girl. You find the man who seduced her, who bedazzled her into playing the whore for him, and you'll find your killer."

"Why do you think she had a lover?"

"She was always sneaking off, refusing to tell me where she'd been, even when I took my hand to her. And after she died, I went through her belongings, found trinkets and cloth and a brass mirror. She had no money to buy such stuff, and she was no thief. He gave them to her, and then he killed her."

Godwin's voice was oddly without emotion, flattened out and stolid sounding. Justin had heard these tones before, from those who'd long ago stopped expecting life to be easy or even fair. He found himself thinking; that a lack of hope was as onerous as the lack of money. But then he thought of Melangell, escaping out a window to keep her moonlit trysts in a deserted churchyard. A little less hope might have kept her alive.

The rest of the interview with Godwin was unproductive. According to him, Melangell had offered to pick up his shoes from the cordwainer, did not return. When he got back from making his rounds, he'd gone looking for her, not becoming truly fearful until darkness foil. He'd spent the night searching for her and got home at dawn to find the serjeant, Tobias, waiting to take him to identify his daughter's body.

But he claimed to know nothing of her churchyard rendezvous and could shed no light on her last hours. When they pressed him, he became more and more taciturn, spending his words like a miser's hoarded coins. Luke had seen this act before: the rustic peasant who was too slow-witted to be worth interrogating. Even when it didn't work, it was a hard shell to crack, and he did not protest when Godwin insisted he must get back to work.

"Papa!" A child was running toward them, weaving agilely between the sailors clogging the wharf. "A ship is about to pass through the bridge! Look … they are taking down the mast. Can I go onto the bridge to watch?"

"If you do not get underfoot," Godwin agreed, waving her on. By then she'd noticed Luke and Justin. Sharp black eyes peered at them curiously through a ripple of wind-tossed ebony hair, for she was too young to wear a veil; Justin guessed her age to be about eleven. She had a thin little face, an equally angular body, as yet showing no softening curves, swathed in a well-mended gown that was too big for her; one of Melangell's hand-me-downs? Justin had almost forgotten there was a younger sister.

One glance was enough to tell her that these men were good prospects; a man wearing a sword was a man sure to have some money to spend. "Papa, did you show them those new hats, the ones with the wide brims? Or the brushes made with boar bristles? Or the-"

"They are not here to buy, Cati. They are looking into your sister's death."

Cati did not have her father's stoicism. Emotions chased across her face, like shadows encroaching upon sunlight. There was pain, so raw the men flinched to look upon it, followed by rage that was utterly adult in its intensity, and then the saddest response of all — suspicion.

Justin supposed it was only to be expected that Cati would mistrust those in authority. Peddlers were viewed as a necessary evil, tolerated and rousted by turns, all too often convenient scapegoats for crimes in need of quick solving. Although he did his best to reassure Cati of his goodwill, he got nowhere fast, his smiles and gentle questions met with a blank stare. If Cati had been privy to her sister's clandestine love affairs, she was not about to break faith with Melangell now. She shook her head mutely, shrugged, even lapsing into Welsh once or twice. Justin soon gave up. Luke had not even tried, for he knew that none were more tenacious in the safeguarding of their secrets than children, especially secrets that were forbidden.

~~

Afterward, they walked slowly back home, tired and disheartened, as the day's light faded and the sky's sunset afterglow gave way to a deepening twilight haze. They'd stopped at the riverside cookshop to buy pork pies for themselves, sausage for Shadow, and by the time they reached Gracechurch Street, the city was silvered in moonlight.

Justin was more discouraged than Luke, for he was the one bound by Nell's rash promise, and it was pinching and chaffing more and more. After an entire day chasing down Melangell's elusive ghost, he was still groping for answers. He could not rule out either Geoffrey or Daniel Aston as suspects in the girl's killing. Luke had helpfully pointed out that even her father might well be a suspect, too, for he had no alibi for the time of the murder. When Justin expressed skepticism, Luke reminded him that men had killed in the defense of family honour since the dawn of time, and to that, Justin had no comeback.

"Why could it not be a stranger?" Justin argued, almost plaintively, for he was in a precarious situation and well aware of it. If one of the Aston boys were guilty, he'd fail Agnes, a woman to whom he owed much. Yet if the girl's father had slain her in a fit of misguided rage, what would become of Cati?

"It could have been, I suppose," Luke conceded, throwing him a bone. "I doubt it, though. No one heard any screams, did they? It's been my experience that when a woman is accosted by a stranger, she'll scream her head off. But if she is there to meet someone she knows, she's not as likely to realize her danger until it is too late. Even if they were quarreling and even if she was afraid, would Melangell have feared that her father or her lover had killing in mind?"

Justin winced, for the dead girl was beginning to seem real to him. He could envision her humming under her breath as she hastened to meet her lover, admiring herself in that brass mirror, teasing her little sister and coaxing the landlord into doing small favors for her. A girl who was spirited enough to defy her father, who doted on animals and "liked men," a girl who'd died too young and far from her Welsh homeland, probably buried in a pauper's grave. It occurred to him now that he wanted to catch her killer as much for Melangell as for Agnes or Cati.

"Of course," Luke theorized, "if that jackass Aston is right and she was a harlot, then the killer could have been almost anyone, for half the men in London would tumble a pretty young wench if the time and price were right."

"I do not think she was a harlot," Justin said, so firmly that Luke glanced at him in amusement.

"Can you be so sure of that? We're not talking about the Blessed Virgin Mary, after all, but a girl who … how did Geoffrey so delicately put it? … liked men."

"That does not make her a whore," Justin insisted, and even he could not have said if he was also defending his own unknown mother, defending Claudine.

"I pity you, de Quincy. Any man so trusting of women is like a sheep for the shearing. As it happens, though," Luke conceded, "I tend to agree with you. It does not sound as if the girl was out on the street, at least not full-time. So we're back to a closed circle. The lover? The spurned lover? The father?"

"The truth, Luke, is that I have no idea who killed her."

"Neither do I," Luke acknowledged cheerfully. "But then, I'm leaving on the morrow so it — What? What is amiss?" he asked, for Justin had come to an abrupt halt on the path, only a few feet from the cottage.

Justin answered by pointing toward the door. After being stalked by Gilbert the Fleming, he'd gotten into the habit of snagging the latchstring around a nail whenever he left the cottage. Now it dangled free, offering swaying proof that the latch had been lifted. But was the intruder still within? Bathed in moonlight, silent as a cemetery, the cottage gave away no secrets. All seemed normal. All had seemed normal, too, in Gunter's stables just before the Fleming had launched his murderous attack.

Someone else might have shrugged, assumed the string had broken free, and barged on in. But Luke was never one to mock caution; on several occasions, that niggling sixth sense had saved his life. He and Justin slid their swords from their scabbards in unison. They worked well as a team, but then they'd had some practice at it. Justin hit the door first, with Luke right behind him, entering fast to take any intruders by surprise.

The tactic worked. Claudine was certainly surprised, sitting bolt upright in bed with a startled scream. She'd lit a cresset lamp, and it gave off enough light to reveal that the shapely body in the bed was naked under the sheet. Her skin looked golden and glistening in the lamplight, her hair spilling over her bared shoulders, darker than the night itself, and Justin's breath caught in his throat.

Claudine was still clutching the sheet, her eyes wide. But as she looked from Justin, who was slowly sheathing his sword, to Luke, who was leaning against the door, grinning widely, a smile flitted across her lips.

"Oh, my," she said, and began to laugh.