The Lady Chapel

3

Ridley shifted on the low rock wall on which he had seated himself once he was convinced that Owen had come from the Archbishop. The merchant's face was reddening with the sun. He shielded his eyes with his right hand to look up at Owen. The gems on his fingers twinkled in the sunlight. "I know why you've come. Bess Merchet found the-" Ridley swallowed. "Why would someone put that hand in my room?"

Owen noted the rings. Travelers were attacked on the road for far less. Ridley risked his own life and the lives of the two servants who accompanied him. No doubt he considered his servants little better than pack horses. What an arrogant half-wit to flaunt his wealth so recklessly.

Owen opened his mouth, closed it. Some of his irritation stemmed from having to blink his good eye against the reflections. He detested being so blinded. But he must curb his tongue and get to the point. "One of your business partners was murdered last night. Near the minster."

"One of my-" Ridley shaded his eyes with both hands and peered at Owen. "Not Will Crounce?"

Blinded again, Owen suggested that they move into the shade. "Your face is reddening at an alarming rate."

Ridley obliged, then repeated his question. "Was it Will Crounce?"

"Yes. Did you realize that was his hand?"

"Will's?" Ridley choked. "I-Dear Lord, no. I did not look closely. But even if I had, how would one recognize-? I do not think I would know my own hand lying severed." Ridley shivered.

"Why did you leave without a word to anyone about it? At least a warning to the Merchets?"

Ridley bobbed his head and averted his eyes, embarrassed. "It was cowardly and thoughtless, and they have been good to me. But I could not think what to do. All I wanted was to get far away."

"What did you think it meant?"

"I wondered who would play such a hideous trick on me." Ridley made the sign of the cross with a trembling hand.

Owen stared out across the summer meadows. This road paralleled the Ouse, though they were far enough north that the river was not visible. Still, it was the rich soil of a floodplain, quite different from the moors and dales to the north and west. A gentle landscape. Besides Owen, Ridley, and Ridley's two servants, there was no one in sight, though Owen could see cultivated fields. It must be midday, and all the laborers off in some shady spot, eating. A breeze stirred the wildflowers. It was so quiet Owen could hear the bees humming. Occasionally one of the horses whinnied or a bird sang out. Such an inappropriate setting for talk of murder.

"You thought of nothing more sinister than that someone was playing a trick on you?" Owen asked.

"That was as horrible as I cared to imagine. And my mind was muddled. I had much too much ale last night. Will and I-" Ridley shook his head. "This must mean he was murdered?"

"It would seem so."

Ridley took a deep, shuddering breath. "No doubt you have heard from Bess Merchet that I spent the evening with Will at the York Tavern and he left in a temper." Ridley rose and went to his horse, drew a leather bottle out of his pack. "Sweet Mary and all the saints," he breathed and took a drink. "I meant to make it up to him today. I did not like his going away angry." He took another swig and looked up at Owen. "Does Archbishop Thoresby think I murdered Will?"

"And left the evidence in your room? No, His Grace says you are no such fool. But he hopes you can help us find the murderer. That you might know why someone would want Crounce dead. And who that might be."

Ridley ran a dimpled hand over his forehead where the band of his felt hat was already dark with sweat. He took another drink. "Want Will dead?" He shook his head, looking down at his boots. "I cannot say. Will had prospered, though you'd never guess it to see him. He dressed humbly, as he always had. But he did carry a money pouch. He always did, old Will. Prepared for the unexpected bargain, he would say." Ridley smiled sadly and took another swig.

"You'd best go easy on your drink. You've a way to go to Beverley."

Ridley straightened and returned the bottle to the pack.

"Your friend had no money pouch on him when we found him," Owen said.

"So he was killed for the money. Greed. The deadliest sin, to my mind, coveting thy neighbor's goods."

Owen fought a smile at those words coming from such a tempter of thieves. "Crounce met a woman outside the tavern. Did he have a lady friend?"

"He said nothing of meeting a woman," Ridley said.

"I understand Crounce was a widower. . "

Ridley nodded. "And popular with the ladies, Will was."

"Anyone in particular?"

Ridley took off his hat, wiped his brow, frowned down at the stained brim. "Last night was our first chance to talk in a long while.

But I would guess his current favorite was Kristine de Melton, a widow with a bright young boy Will meant to sponsor in the guild. It's not the sort of thing one does for a mere acquaintance."

Owen found that an interesting connection. "The boy's name is Jasper?"

Ridley squinted at Owen as he put his hat back on. "How do you know his name?"

"Jasper de Melton witnessed the murder. It was Jasper who told the Archbishop of the hooded woman who waited for Crounce outside the York Tavern."

"So it was Mistress de Melton?"

"Not likely. Archbishop Thoresby says the boy was sent to fetch Crounce to Mistress de Melton's sickbed."

Ridley sighed. "A mystery woman, then." He shook his head, then looked Owen square in the eye. "How was Will killed? Was it only the hand they hacked off? They did not dismember him, did they?"

"His throat was slit."

Ridley crossed himself and bowed his head to murmur a prayer. Owen waited in silence. He knew the rush of bile that choked a man when he learned the details of a friend's death. Ridley's eyes were wet when he looked up. "He did not deserve such an end, not Will. He was a good man. No saint, but a good man."

"The hand was something the murderer did afterward," Owen said. "Can you think why?"

Ridley shook his head.

"Someone noticed that he wore a signet ring on that hand. Was it on the hand when you found it?"

Ridley winced, thinking back to the hand on the floor. "God grant him rest." He shook his head slowly. "I think if the ring had been on the hand, I would have noticed it. Might even have guessed it was Will's-" He dropped his head, covering his eyes with his jeweled fingers.

"They cut off the right hands of thieves," Owen said. "Could someone have felt Crounce had robbed him?"

Ridley made no sign that he heard the question.

Owen repeated it.

Ridley shook himself. "Sorry." He wiped his eyes sheepishly. "1 never heard Will called a thief."

"You can think of no one who might have believed himself cheated by Crounce? No business venture gone sour? Someone who thought Crounce had gotten what was his-or hers-by trickery?"

Ridley shrugged. "I have worked in London and Calais for many years. Will was my man here. As long as he carried out my wishes, and those of Goldbetter's, I did not ask about his methods."

"What did you argue about last night?"

Ridley flinched. "Nothing of import."

"Perhaps it will prove important."

"It was a private matter. Drink loosened our tongues, and we tripped over them. It can have no bearing on Will's death."

"I know it concerned your wife and daughter." Owen, watching the color of Ridley's face deepen with an embarrassed flush, knew it was a cruel thing to say, but Owen had to know everything. There was no way Ridley could say this or that had no bearing on his friend's murder-not if he was telling the truth.

"Someone overheard. I should not be surprised. We did get loud. I meant to apologize today, treat Will to a grand meal."

"Tell me about the argument."

"I have been an absent husband, absent father. My business kept me away from Riddlethorpe but for brief visits. Will spent more time with my family than I did. He thought I was unkind to my wife, Cecilia. To be honest, I thought he was perhaps too fond of my wife. So the argument got tangled. And then he started on my daughter's husband. The young man was my choice, you see, and he's turned out to be-impatient-with my daughter. Cecilia is unhappy because Anna-that's my daughter-is unhappy. Will blamed me for all of it."

"That is a heavy burden."

Ridley nodded. "But there's much truth to it."

"Your daughter's husband was a business partner?"

"Paul Scorby of Ripon. Good family. I had some business dealings with them a long time ago. Nothing recently. But they are of good blood. My son, Matthew, lived in their household and learned how to go about with such people. Paul Scorby is ambitious, though perhaps more of a dreamer than a doer. I did not see that then. I thought him a good match for Anna."

"Had Crounce argued with Scorby?"

Ridley shook his head. "He would not have interfered like that. No. I cannot see how our argument had anything to do with Will's death."

Owen shrugged.

"I am sorry I can be of so little help," Ridley said.

Owen shaded his eye and looked off in the distance. "By the time we get to Riddlethorpe, you might think of something that will help."

Ridley started. "You're going to Riddlethorpe?"

Owen nodded. "1 offer you my protection."

Ridley frowned. "What need have I of protection?"

"A good friend and business partner has been murdered, and his severed hand deliberately left in your room, Master Ridley. For unknown reasons. Will Crounce might have had a chance encounter with a robber, but he might have been murdered by someone he knew. And that someone seems to also know you. He may be after you at this very time."

Ridley took off his hat and mopped his forehead. His hair was matted down with sweat. "Sweet Mother of God."

"You must look to your safety."

Ridley regarded Owen more closely than he had until now. "You look more like an outlaw than a protector."

Owen touched the patch. "You are not the first to say so."

"How did you lose your eye?"

"In the service of the old Duke of Lancaster. A French campaign. I caught someone murdering our prize prisoners."

"And now you're in John Thoresby's service?"

"From time to time."

"Owen Archer, you said?" Owen nodded. "Captain of Archers, were you?"

"A good guess."

"To tell the truth, I've heard you called Captain. And with that West Country manner of speech." Ridley shrugged. "You married Nicholas Wilton's widow, I think?"

"I did."

"Mistress Archer is of noble stock, at least on her father's side."

"Mistress Wilton, not Archer."

Ridley frowned. "And why is that?"

"The guild. The Archbishop coerced them into allowing Lucie both to continue the work she'd begun as Nicholas Wilton's apprentice and to marry me. But they insisted she keep the name to remind me that I have no claims to the shop if she dies."

"Pity she could not use her family name. I know Sir Robert D'Arby. A fine gentleman. In fact, if you wish to check my character, your wife's father would vouch for me." Ridley said this with pride.

"My wife's father?"

Ridley nodded. "I procured some horses for Sir Robert during the siege of Calais. He can attest to my good character, I assure you."

"How did you come to know Sir Robert?"

"You know how wars are waged. Deals among the nobles. They also make deals with local merchants, and vice versa. We knew trouble was coming, and it would affect us particularly, we who traded over there. I knew it was important to make a good impression on the man who might become governor of Calais, and at the time it looked to be Sir Robert D'Arby."

Owen did not want to discuss Lucie's family. "Master Ridley, considering the unpleasant item left in your room, 1 think it wise I check your packs."

"For what?"

"Something equally unpleasant. Or harmful to you."

Ridley blanched. "I cannot think who would want to harm me."

"May I examine your packs?"

"Please do."

Ridley watched Owen's search from a comfortable spot. Owen could sense the man's uneasiness, but could not tell whether Ridley feared what Owen would find or knew of something he did not want Owen to see. It must have been the former, because there was nothing suspicious in the packs.

Ridley looked relieved. "Perhaps the hand was just the prank of a madman."

Owen nodded. "We should move on if we're to reach Beverley by dusk. Will you accept my company?"

Ridley looked at his servants, idly lounging by the pack horses. One young, one grizzled, with several teeth gone. Neither trained to fight. Ridley looked back at Owen-tall, broad-shouldered, threatening. "Oh, aye. I'll be glad of your company, Captain Archer."

The road to Beverley wound through flat countryside rather than moorland, with little to distract the traveler but talk. Ridley rode close to Owen, reminiscing about his friendship with Crounce. Owen recognized Ridley's need to talk of his friend, part of the ritual of mourning.

"I had looked forward to spending time with Will, now that I've handed the Goldbetter and Company business over to my son, Matthew."

"You are generous to your son, giving him your business."

"It is just part of my business."

"Why that part?"

Ridley was quiet a while. Then, at last, he said in a voice almost drowned out by the horses, "I felt the years settling in my bones. I had built a grand house, and I wanted some time to enjoy it."

Owen believed him, but doubted that was the whole reason.

Bess tapped Lucie on the shoulder. "You've not had supper, have you?"

Lucie straightened up and rubbed her eyes. She'd been working on the ledger since she had closed the shop, hoping to finish a neat copy of the list of herbs, roots, powders, and other ingredients in the shop that she'd made since returning from her Aunt Philippa. "This should have been finished weeks ago, Bess. If I let it go, there's always a danger that I will be caught without something. People's lives depend on my records."

"And why did Owen not make up the list while you were away?"

Lucie sighed. "He's still learning, Bess. It was enough for him to watch the shop. And he did well. I have no complaints."

Bess gave a disapproving sniff. "A fine time for him to take off on an adventure for the Archbishop."

"It was not Owen's choice."

"Well, never mind." Bess pushed a trencher of hard bread heaped with stew in front of Lucie, then poured ale into a large cup. "Now, then, do your best with that."

Bess poured herself a cup and sat down opposite Lucie to make sure she ate. Lucie laughed and dipped a spoon into the stew.

"The shop was uncommonly busy today, I thought," Bess said, resting her strong arms on the table, her sleeves still rolled up from a day's cleaning and cooking.

Lucie nodded. "People are using any excuse they can dream up to come in and ask about the murder. They know Owen was called to the Archbishop's palace. Which is good; Owen wanted me to find out more about the boy who witnessed the attack."

"So what do you know?"

"That his mother, Kristine de Melton, died today. And Jasper de Melton has disappeared."

"Why?"

"I would guess that the boy fears the murderers will come for him. Just in case he saw something."

"In the dark?"

"If you had murdered someone, Bess, wouldn't you try to erase your steps?"

Bess sighed. "Poor lad."

Lucie was quiet for a time, enjoying her friend's cooking. "I hated asking. All those years in the convent, being told over and over that gossip was a sin. I cannot do it with an easy conscience."

Bess sniffed. "I cannot see why gossip is considered a sin. How else is a body to know what's going on?"

Lucie smiled.

"So did anyone have an idea where the poor lad might be hiding?" Bess asked.

Lucie shook her head. "But the man I met on the road-you know, the one who helped me free the cart from the mud when I was coming back from Freythorpe Hadden-he has offered to look for the boy in the places where such orphans usually wind up."

"The man Owen had such a fit over? The stranger with the nice voice?"

Lucie laughed at what Bess had chosen to remember. "You know, the man had mentioned Will Crounce to me on the ride that

night. Told me to watch for Crounce in the Mercers' play. At least he had a reason to ask about the death. He must have been a friend of Crounce."

"You didn't ask him?"

"I did, actually, but all he said was, 'Boroughbridge is a small town.' "

"He's a foreigner, you said?"

"His accent is odd-not quite like my mother's, not Norman French, but more like hers than anyone's here."

"A Fleming, perhaps? Like those weavers who settled here under the King's protection?"

"I've never spoken with them, so I couldn't say."

"What's his name?"

"Martin."

Bess winced. "Unfortunate."

Lucie shook her head. "It is a good name, Bess. I cannot mourn my baby forever." Lucie and her first husband had lost their only child, Martin, to the plague.

"Owen should give you a child," Bess said.

"It's not for want of trying that we are not yet blessed."

Bess shrugged. "So you don't know whence came this Martin?"

"I didn't ask."

Bess disapproved of so much mystery. "You invited him into your house?"

"He came into the shop, Bess, not the house."

"What about the ride in the cart?"

Lucie looked closely at her friend. "What is this, Bess? Why all the questions? What about all the other people who asked about Will Crounce today?"

"This Martin knew Crounce before. He's a stranger. He could be the murderer."

"Bess, that's nonsense. Why would he risk coming here if he were the murderer?"

"Like a moth to a flame, Lucie, my child. He wants to hear what folk have to say about his crime."

"Why would he offer to look for Jasper de Melton?"

"I don't know. What did he say?"

"He was out on the streets at about that age." Lucie shoved the

trencher out of her way and replaced it with the ledger. "I am busy, Bess. I have no time for any more gossip."

Bess shook her head. "You will work yourself into an early grave, Lucie."

Lucie looked up with a smile. "So will you, Bess." Bess snorted. "Aye. And I must get back to check on Tom." After Bess left, Lucie found it hard to focus on the ledger. It was true she felt Martin was hiding something. So why did she trust him? The question spun round and round in her head and made it impossible to work.

"Perhaps it's time for bed," she said to Melisende, who was napping near the hearth, resting up for the night's hunt. Lucie closed the ledger, damped the fire, and scooped up the cat, who complained.

"It will be cold up there without Owen," Lucie told Melisende as she determinedly carried the squirming Queen of Jerusalem upstairs.

It was after dark when Owen and Ridley rode through a stone gate and into the yard of Riddlethorpe. From the size of the house and how long they had ridden since Ridley announced they were on his land, he had made a respectable fortune in Goldbetter and Company. The house was stone below, half-timbered above. A tall woman waited up the steps in the doorway, in the light of a lantern held by a serving girl. Other servants helped Owen and Ridley to dismount, then led the four horses away.

"My wife, Cecilia," Ridley said as they approached the woman in the doorway. "Cecilia, this is Captain Archer. One of Archbishop Thoresby's men."

Cecilia Ridley ignored Owen and asked her husband, "Is there trouble, Gilbert?" Large, dark eyes in a narrow face gave her the look of a frightened deer. In white wimple and veil and a russet wool gown, she was plainly dressed, without any of her husband's ostentation. There was a quiet nobility in her bearing.

"No trouble for me as such," her husband replied, "but Will Crounce has been killed."

Cecilia Ridley frowned as if she did not understand. "Did Will not come with you?"

"Did you hear me, woman?" Ridley snapped. "Will is dead. Murdered."

The shock registered on Cecilia's face, making her eyes even more prominent, drawing the skin even tighter along the bones. "Will? Dear God." She crossed herself.

"Perhaps you should sit down inside," Owen said gently.

Cecilia Ridley clutched at her stomach and nodded, her eyes fixed on some spot beyond her husband's or her guest's faces. "1 cannot believe- He was here just four days ago."

"Cecilia," Ridley said in a warning tone.

The woman started, glanced at Owen, then her husband, and stepped aside for them to enter the hall. "Forgive me. You will want something to fortify you after your journey." It was a toneless recital of ritual. As her husband passed her, she touched his arm. "Did it happen while you were there?" she whispered.

Ridley nodded and pushed past her, striding into the hall with an air of irritation. He sank down on a bench near the hearth, and a boy helped him out of his travel-stained boots. "Will was murdered after spending the evening with me. His throat was slit wide." The boy, who was helping Owen now, sat back with a gasp.

"That's a good boy, Johnnie," Cecilia Ridley said, shooing the boy out of the hall. She shook her head at her husband. "You'll have the servants deserting us if you speak of such things in front of them." All said in the toneless voice of habit.

Ridley shrugged. "That's not the worst of it, anyway. Someone cut off Will's hand and put it in my room while I was downstairs paying my bill this morning."

Owen watched Cecilia Ridley, ready to help her to a seat. But Ridley's comment seemed to snap her out of her shock. "How uncomfortable for you, Gilbert." She said it softly, but it bit all the same. She glanced at Owen, then back at her husband. "Does Captain Archer attend you because he suspects you of the murder?"

"Dear God, no, wife." Ridley gave Owen a pained look. "She always suspects the worst. Such a gloomy woman." He looked back at his wife. "Get us some refreshment and leave us."

Cecilia Ridley left after pouring them some wine. The girl who had held the lantern brought them cold meat, bread, and cheese.

Ridley noticed Owen examining the surroundings. With his one good eye, Owen was obvious in his curiosity, moving his whole head to see all around him. "You wonder at the simplicity when the manor itself is so grand," Ridley guessed.

Considering Ridley's rings, Owen had expected tapestries and embroidered cushions, all the trappings of a family proud of its wealth. But the great hall was almost bare. Its wooden floor was scrubbed, the few chairs and benches pushed back against the walls, out of the way, but for the two chairs and a table set for the master and his guest. The few tapestries were unremarkable and were positioned to keep drafts from the area near the hearth. The only sign of Ridley's taste was a set of shelves against the far wall on which polished silver plates and cups were displayed, and, Owen guessed, never used. They had been served on wooden plates, in pewter cups. Owen concluded that Ridley's wife resisted the ostentation her husband no doubt wanted. Owen approved. "The house is quite new," he said. "You have storage cellars below this?"

Ridley beamed with pride. "Wine, dried meats, and fruits. I have learned much in my travels. I will show you in the morning. Another woman would show it off, but Cecilia hates all that. In fact, I complained about her just last night to Will. He defended her, arguing that she is virtuous in preferring simplicity. Is it a sin to enjoy what God has granted? All the cloth I bought for her, the jewels, the silver-you see how she displays the plate, as if it's to sell, not to eat on." Ridley shook his head. "I know what you think, she must come from common stock. Not in the least! She is a bishop's niece. Her father was a knight."

Owen did not wish to offer an opinion. "You will not object to a few more questions?"

"That depends."

"About your business, nothing personal."

Ridley shrugged.

"What was your working relationship with Will Crounce? Are there any others who might know something?"

Ridley seemed to think it a reasonable line of questioning. "When John Goldbetter decided he needed me in London and Calais rather than York and Hull, I looked around for a younger

man who already knew something of the wool trade and found Will Crounce. His wife's father, Joseph Stephenson, was in the guild in York and was teaching Will the trade, but he'd lost a deal of money and was happy to recommend his son-in-law."

"You are certain Stephenson did not resent giving up a hard worker?"

Ridley looked surprised, then nodded. "I see. You wonder whether Stephenson is somehow involved in his son-in-law's death? Impossible. He is dead. Almost the entire family died of plague. One of those families that seems to live under a curse. But, even so, I always had a good relationship with them."

"So Crounce looked after your interests in York and Hull?"

"Goldbetter's interests, truth be told. We all work for Goldbetter."

Owen gestured around the hall. "You've done well."

Ridley nodded. "I've been loyal through good times and bad. Goldbetter trusts me."

"How did he feel about Crounce?"

Ridley considered the question. "I'm not sure he ever met Will. It was enough for John Goldbetter that I was pleased with the arrangement."

"Did Crounce work with anyone else?"

"Occasional clerks. They come and go."

"How did you communicate?"

"Messengers."

"Any particular one?"

Ridley swirled the wine in his cup. Owen had the distinct feeling that the delay was not to search his memory, but that Ridley found the question uncomfortable and was deciding how much to say. Owen watched him. This was a part of questioning that Owen did well. An archer was trained to wait, watch, motionless but ready to strike. He had trained himself to silently observe the person while waiting for the answer, not repeating the question. This let the person know that he knew the question had been heard the first time, a tactic Owen had learned by observing Bess Merchet. It was a nice way to put his old skills to work.

"The messenger is not the most savory character is why I hesitate," Ridley said finally. "But he would have no cause to murder Will."

"Still, I would talk with him. He may know something useful."

Ridley rubbed his double chin and frowned. "That's a problem. 1 have no idea how to find him."

"You cannot be serious."

Ridley shrugged. "He just appeared at regular intervals and received his orders. And now that I've handed the business over to my son and Will is gone, I doubt that I'll see the man again."

"A surprisingly inefficient arrangement."

Ridley sighed and threw up his hands. "You must understand. With our on-and-off war with France, it is impossible to find someone both honest and capable to run messages across the Channel. Wirthir was willing enough and exceptionally reliable- for good pay, of course-and so I did not ask questions. But I suspect he did some pirating or smuggling on the side."

"Wirthir?"

"Martin Wirthir. A Fleming. He must have stayed with someone in York while Will prepared his response, which sometimes entailed completing business before he could reply. But I have no idea where Wirthir stayed."

"Your son will not use him?"

Ridley shook his head. "My Matthew is an innocent. My fault for leaving him in the care of his mother so long. I should have sent him to the Scorbys sooner. But he will learn. His greed will teach him. For now Matthew believes that business can be successfully carried out in complete honesty. He never approved of Wirthir."

"Your son is in Calais?"

Ridley nodded. "He will travel back and forth between Calais and London, as I did."

"And how is it that you felt comfortable crossing the Channel?"

"John Goldbetter has all sorts of connections."

"Ah."

When the two men had finished their repast, Cecilia Ridley returned to show Owen up to a small private chamber. "This is my son's room when he is at home. I thought you would be comfortable here. I thank you for escorting Gilbert." Cecilia's face had some

more color now. "Please." She touched his arm. "Can you tell me anything else about Will's death?"

"It may have been robbery, though it was violent for that. A ring he wore on his right hand is missing. You knew him well. Could you describe the ring?"

"It was a signet. He used it for sealing his letters. Nothing unusual. Not like Gilbert's rings."

"You were good friends?"

Cecilia Ridley's hand fluttered to her neck. "Will was kind to me. He helped me set up the accounts. Found a steward when ours died of plague. Always came with presents for the children's birthdays."

"This question will seem unkind, but forgive me, I must ask it. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Will Crounce?"

Cecilia shook her head. "He was a gentle man, Captain Archer. I cannot imagine anyone hating him so."

In the morning, Ridley showed Owen the ground floor, the stores of wine from Gascony, the stone-floored room in which all estate records were kept. Owen was most impressed by a curing room, where food was dried, smoked, or salted. A small hearth and a large stone sink with a drain made it cleverly convenient. Owen had never seen the like. Ridley was pleased. And Owen, seeing the man's genuine pleasure in his house, could not help but like him a little more.

All the same, Owen was grateful to leave Riddlethorpe. There was a tension between Ridley and his wife that made Owen feel in the way. And surely they had much to say to each other about the murder of their friend and business partner.

As Owen told Lucie over supper, "The oddest part was how Cecilia Ridley's face changed when her husband was present. It darkened, became stony. That, my love, is an unhappy marriage."

Lucie considered all he had told her. The elaborate house, Cecilia Ridley's simplicity, the subject of the argument between Crounce and Ridley the night of the murder, what Cecilia Ridley had said about Crounce. "It sounds to me as if Cecilia Ridley had far more affection for Will Crounce than she has for her husband."

Owen turned his good eye on her. "I had the same thought."

Lucie bit her lip, thinking. "There is nothing surprising in that,

Gilbert Ridley having lived away for most of their married life, but if it's so apparent to us, what must it be like for Ridley?"

"You mean, did he kill Crounce for stealing his wife's affection?"

Lucie started to nod, then sighed and shook her head. "No. It does not fit your description of Gilbert Ridley. His only passion is wealth. Not his wife."

"What have you learned about Jasper de Melton?"

"He has disappeared. His mother died, and Jasper vanished."

"Just as I feared. The boy is afraid that the murderers will come for him."

"Or they already have." Lucie hated saying it aloud.

Owen rubbed his scar.

Lucie took a deep breath. "The stranger who helped me on the road from Freythorpe has offered to search for the boy."

Owen's fist slammed into the table. "And what was he doing here?"

"Did you hear me? He has offered to help."

"I don't want his help."

Lucie's eyes flamed. She jumped up, knocking her stool backward. "Oh, indeed? I humble myself and risk my immortal soul gossiping with the citizens of York for you, and you reject the help I found? How gracious you are." She stormed out of the room.

Owen felt like a hypocrite for criticizing Ridley's marriage.