Baynard's List (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 2) Read online

  Stephen had thought that Olivia was exaggerating, but he found that Margaret was a formidable opponent. She played aggressively, quickly dominating the center and then mounted an attack on his left, where he had sheltered his king.

  It didn’t help Stephen’s game that he found it hard to keep his eyes off her face and on the board. Once her foot brushed his calf. It did not instantly withdraw, but lingered there a moment. His first impulse was to jerk his leg away, for touching her in anyway was improper. But he froze. She did not seem offended at the contact. She looked up at him and smiled. He felt as though he could turn into a puddle on the chair. She withdrew the foot and moved a pawn.

  Though Margaret played hard and well, she made a couple of oddly amateurish mistakes toward the end that allowed him to slip a bishop into checkmate.

  “I’m afraid I’ve met my match. You play so well, sir,” she said as they rose for dinner.

  By this time, two dinner tables had been set up, a small one for Olivia, Margaret and Stephen, and a second larger one for the servants. Stephen had expected to see a bigger household, but Olivia’s establishment was small. There was only Lucy and another two maids, two grooms and general handy men, a laundress, and an elderly gardener. Two other tough-looking men were present as well. Stephen learned they served Margaret. It seemed odd that she had servants who looked like soldiers, but she told him that they were old retainers of her father’s and had come into her service when he died. “I couldn’t turn them out,” she said. “Their families have served ours for two hundred years.”

  Dinner, the main meal of the day which often dragged on for course after course at wealthy households, seemed to take no time at all. Stephen had little recollection of anything that was served except for little roasted hens in a mustard sauce and a delicious duck at the end.

  He spent the entire time deep in conversation with Margaret. Olivia seemed to have lost her tongue and ate silently, staring at the fire. But Stephen had forgotten she was there. Margaret, for her part, was full of questions. She showed a great deal of interest in his experiences in Spain, and he found himself talking about the beauty of Spanish sunsets, the grandeur of Cordoba, the arid plains, the vast horse herds of central Spain, and things he would rather have forgotten, like the fearful chant of the Moorish cavalry just before the charge. He didn’t tell her everything, though. There were things he held back: Taresa and Christopher. Along the way, she let slip bits of information about herself. She was twenty-one. She had a son, four. She was from an old family in Herefordshire to the south and west, well off but not fabulously wealthy.

  At the close of the meal, after Lucy brought bowls of water and towels for washing their hands, Stephen asked to see Baynard’s study. Olivia looked as though she’d rather be doing something else, but she led Stephen and Margaret upstairs to the front of the house.

  The library was exactly as Stephen remembered it: A smallish eight-by-ten foot room with windows on two sides for light, a writing table with a large slanted writing box on top, and shelves holding a dozen books.

  Margaret looked around the room and said, “So this is where Ancelin did his work.”

  “Some of it,” Olivia said in a rather dark tone.

  “Pleasant,” Margaret said.

  “If you like being cooped up with pens and parchments,” Olivia said with the slightest hint of resentment.

  Stephen crossed immediately to the table and the writing box. He tried the lid. It was unlocked and swung up to reveal parchments and vellum sheets and some expensive Italian paper stuffed inside as though whoever had looked at the materials last had stuck them hurriedly back in the box. Even though he had already seen everything here, he went through the documents slowly a page at a time, as if in the hope the list would be there and Valence had merely missed it. But of course it was not there. Most of the documents dealt with household issues, bills, lists of purchases, a long thick roll of accounts. It looked as though anything related to Baynard’s spying had been removed.

  He returned the documents and closed the lid. Then he knelt down and examined the hinges at the back. One of the pins was missing, as he expected it would be. He had got in the box without the key before by poking out the pins. He had time to return only one of them before Clement and Muryet had come to find out what he was doing in the study. The other pin was just as he had left it. One end showed the barely visible prick mark left by the point of his dagger, which he’d used to drive the pin back into place. It did not appear that whoever had stolen the list had got in the same way he had. They had used a key.

  “How many keys are there to this box?” Stephen said, straightening up.

  “Only one that I know of,” Olivia said.

  “Master Baynard kept it?”

  “Yes, on a little chain around his neck.”

  “It would have been with him when he died, then.”

  “I would assume so. I’ve no reason to think otherwise.”

  Stephen tried to remember if he had seen such a chain on Baynard’s body when he examined it. But he had not had Baynard stripped. He’d only pulled up the man’s shirt to examine the death wound in his back.

  “Who fetched the body?” he asked.

  “Howard Makepeese and one of the grooms.”

  “Did they help prepare him for burial?” Whoever prepared Baynard would have removed his clothes and jewelry, washed him, redressed him, and sewn him in his burial shroud. They would have removed the chain.

  “No. I did that.”

  It was the widow’s duty, although in poor households neighbors or close relatives spared her the burden. Servants took the helpers’ places in more wealthy establishments. For Olivia to have taken on the duty implied she had really cared for Baynard. “The chain was with him then?”

  “I think it was. I can’t remember. I didn’t remark it at the time.” Olivia frowned. “Yes, I do believe so. It was. Yes, it was. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m just a silly woman.”

  Stephen nodded. “It’s hard to remember such little things. They don’t seem important at the time. Where is the key now?”

  “Why, with his personal effects, of course.”

  “Where are those kept?”

  “In his room, naturally.”

  “They’ve not been disposed of?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Who has access to them? Could the servants —?” He let the question hang.

  “I suppose they could. The room is not locked anymore.”

  He was finished here. He’d learned all the room had to reveal or that Olivia could tell him about the key. Anyone in the household could have taken it, anyone at all. He paused at the bookshelf and took down one of the books, the same one on sword-and-buckler fencing he had leafed through during his last visit and which he had particularly admired.

  Margaret glanced at the work over his shoulder. “You are bookish too, along with your other accomplishments?” she asked playfully.

  Stephen wasn’t sure whether he should confess how he felt about books. Gentlewomen, especially the young, innocent and flirtatious kind like Margaret, were not known to be attracted to bookish men, and he desperately wanted to impress her, although the whole venture was such a lost cause. It was pleasant to flirt with her, but it couldn’t possibly go any farther than that. He shrugged and said, “There was a large library in Cordoba. I went there a few times. There were enough books to make any man’s head ache.”

  “I would like to see such a place. These dozen are the most I’ve ever seen in one spot.” She turned to Olivia. “You’ve a fortune in books here.”

  “I had no idea,” Olivia said, clearly surprised. She had shown no interest in the books, but she was interested now.

  “You admire this one?” Margaret asked Stephen. The fencing book was beautifully illustrated.

  “It’s a work of art,” Stephen admitted.

  “It has a certain charm, I suppose, but it’s not my taste.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.
There are several French romances there as well,” he said, suddenly daring to tease her.

  “Are there? Who’d have thought a man of business would care about them?” She took down a book and opened it. It was about gardening and herbs. “I rather fancy this one. I’ve manors to manage. This might be helpful. Olivia, could you part with it?”

  “I — Yes, surely. Take it.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Stephen returned the fencing book to the shelf with some reluctance. The shelf proved to be a bit unstable, because the gentle force of the book’s landing caused it to jar, which shook loose a leather cylinder hanging on a peg attached to the shelf. Stephen deftly caught the cylinder before it hit the floor. Heavily coated in wax, it was the kind of case used for transporting documents. The wax served to protect the contents of the case from the wet. He looped the strap over its peg, which stood next to another peg as if Baynard had hung a second such cylinder there. “I must be going,” he said.

  “Oh,” Margaret said, disappointed. “If you must.”

  “I am a man of business myself,” Stephen said. “And business calls.”

  “And what do you traffic in, sir?” she asked.

  “Dead men and lost things,” Stephen said.

  The two women escorted Stephen to the door to say good bye, a courtesy he had not expected. In the ordinary run of things, Lucy should have shown him out.

  “And where will you go now, Sir Stephen, in your search for lost things?” Margaret asked.

  “I have an appointment at a bathhouse,” he said.

  But Margaret laughed. “I trust it is business and pleasure. We can all use a good rinse now and then. Good day to you, Sir Stephen. Shall we see you again? On business, of course.”

  Before he could answer, she shut the door.

  Chapter 8

  The moment the door to Baynard House closed behind Stephen, the worry returned, a coiled worm of anxiety mocking his ineffectiveness, whispering his hopelessness, sneering at Christopher’s doom. Because if Christopher died, all that remained of Taresa except the ghost in Stephen’s memory would die. Stephen pulled the hood of his cloak about his face against the drizzle and strode quickly down College Lane. He regretted that he had wasted so much time with the two women. They allowed him to pretend he had returned to his place among the gentry, and even to think that such a beauty as Margaret might find him interesting. But he had fallen too low ever to get back or to attract such a woman, and he could not afford the distraction.

  He barely noticed the young urchin sitting on the stone fence outside St. Laurence’s, idly twirling a stick in his fingers. The church had rung the hour of None some time ago, and school was letting out. Boys were streaming from the little stone school house on the north side of the church. Some of them shouted insults to the urchin as they passed through the gate. The urchin slipped off the wall and punched one of the speakers in the face, knocking him into a puddle on his fanny and producing a brown splash that dirtied the stockings of those nearby — a double insult in return, because no doubt the boys’ mothers, like most mothers, had warned them not to get their stockings muddy. Before the other boys could pounce on the urchin, he had turned and dashed down the lane. The companions of the schoolboy who had been knocked down helped him to his feet. The schoolboy’s mouth was bleeding, and Stephen heard indignant remarks and promises of revenge as he hurried by, hardly noticing, his mind fixed on what he had to do next. He had more important things to concern him than boys fighting.

  At High Street, he paused at the corner for a herd of cattle that was being driven to the castle. The herd left the street churned to a nearly impassable pulp. Stephen had no choice but to cross it, and his feet sank to the ankles in the worst spots and made disgusting sucking noises when he pulled them free.

  Going down Broad Street in bad weather always seemed more dangerous than going up. Ahead, in attempting to leap across the stream that was forming in the middle of the street, a prosperous looking glover lost his footing and fell headlong into the mud. Broad Stream had claimed another victim. The glover climbed to his feet, dripping and cursing. Stephen heard a child’s high-pitched laugh behind him, but when he turned to see who made the noise, there was no one in sight.

  Stephen managed to reach the gate at the foot of the hill without falling. Broad Stream flowing through the gate was almost ankle deep over the paving stones. Its sole benefit here was as a cleaner of boots, which only became soiled again when he passed out into the lower reaches of Broad Street on its run to the river bridge.

  The Wobbly Kettle, a tall well-made timber building on the right opposite St. John’s Hospital, was distinguishable by its sign, a red kettle tipped upon its side sloshing out a wave of blue water. Stephen went in. He wiped his feet on the mat and hung his wet cloak on one of the many pegs by the door.

  The entry opened into a spacious hall that was well lighted because the owner had put glass in the windows. A serving girl thrust a clay cup of ale into his hand without being asked as she swept on her way to somewhere else. In contrast to the outdoors, it was hot and stuffy in the hall. There was only the central hearth in the middle of the floor for warmth but the fire going there was far higher than it needed to be. A few customers were playing backgammon and there was a table of card players bent over cheap cards painted on slats of wood.

  The real business of the Kettle was in back, where there was an array of tubs, each secluded by embroidered curtains for privacy, and upstairs, where certain disreputable ladies plied their trade. Stephen strolled through the rear, trying to peek through breaks in the curtains without appearing to pry. He didn’t see the person he was looking for. So he went back to the hall and started up the stairs. One of the girls paused on the way down and said, “Love, you’re not supposed to go up there by yourself.”

  “I’m looking for Kate,” Stephen said.

  “She’s with a client, love. It might be awhile, if you want her. Sure someone else won’t do?”

  “No, I’d rather see Kate.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. It was hard to tell whether it was in disappointment or derision. She shrugged and continued down the stairs.

  Stephen followed her and found a chair by the fire to wait. The heat was so intense from the blaze that he thought he might cook like meat on a spit. He pushed the chair back.

  He could barely stand the wait at first and had several more ales than were good for him. He expected her to be not more than half an hour or so, but it was more than two before Kate appeared at last, and by then, Stephen was feeling pretty lightheaded, his sense of urgency blunted by drink and the seductive heat of the fire.

  Kate caught him staring into the fire as she knelt at his elbow. “Hello, Steve,” she said. Kate was not a great beauty, but she was pretty when she smiled. Her face was not ravaged by too much drink as some of the other girls. She was stick thin, except for ample breasts, which were practically in full view owing to her low-cut bodice. She had reddish hair and very pale skin.

  “Hello, Kate.”

  “You look sad. What’s the matter? Having a hard day?”

  Stephen wanted to tell her about his troubles, but he was reluctant to unburden on her. He said, “I think I’m drunk. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  Kate sniffed the contents of his cup. “No wonder. Ted’s been plying you with the hard ale.” She tugged at his arm. “Can you make it upstairs?”

  Stephen heaved himself to his feet. He was relieved to find that he didn’t sway too much. He hoped no one noticed. “I think so.”

  Kate paused at the bottom of the stairs to light a candle from the rack there. Then they went up to a room at the back. They needed the candle to see because it was dark and gloomy in the upper reaches of the house, shuttered up as it was against the storm.

  Kate closed the door and set the candle in a holder on the wall. Stephen stood in the center of the room. There was nowhere to sit but on the bed, and since he had come for something else, the bed did not se
em the right place. But Kate gently pushed him until the backs of his knees met the edge of the bed and he flopped down. She started to draw the string holding her bodice in place but Stephen held up a hand to stop her.

  “I didn’t come for that,” he said.

  “No?” Kate looked disappointed. “What did you come for?” She sat on his lap and took his head in her hands. She stroked his temples. He closed his eyes. He felt like purring when she did that. “Feel better?” she asked.

  He nodded. His head fell to the crook of her neck. Like all the girls here, she used perfume. Some did so heavily, and you could smell them from ten feet away. Kate was more sparing. She smelled like a little flower. It was nice, he thought. Taresa used to sit on his lap like this. He imagined he was with her, not Kate. All the tension seemed to drain away. He ought to come here more often and get drunk and imagine things that couldn’t be.

  He took a deep breath and said, “I need some information, Kate.” He could have asked anyone at the Kettle, including the owner, Ted, and got answers. But he trusted Kate most of all not to lie.

  There was a slight catch in her breathing. “What do you need to know, love?” she asked into the top of his head.

  “I need to find somebody.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “A fellow named Howard Makepeese. Know him?”

  He felt her nod. “Sure. He comes here. Came every Thursday with that man who had his neck broke.”

  “Muryet.”

  “That’s the one. Thick as thieves, those two.”

  Stephen felt her chuckling. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, Muryet was one of the odd boys, if you know what I mean.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “He was using Makepeese as cover. They’d come in together, acting as if they were after the girls. Makepeese would take one and Muryet . . .” She paused. “I shouldn’t tell you the rest. It’s a secret.”

  Stephen squeezed her waist gently. “I won’t tell, I promise.”