Cruel As the Grave (7 page)

By the time Justin and Luke were on their way again, a soft April dusk was settling over the city. Justin had borrowed a lantern from one of Will's men, and they started up Tower Street. Luke was complaining that they ought to have taken their stallions; like most horsemen, he rarely walked anywhere if he could help it. But Justin's sojourn in London had taught him that horses were often an inconvenience in the city. For all that it held over twenty-five thousand people, London's walls enclosed a little more than a square mile. Justin had discovered that he could walk from the Tower to Ludgate in half an hour, whereas on horseback, that trip could take much longer, depending upon the time of day and the flow of traffic.

"Anyway," he pointed out when Luke continued to grumble, "you have to find a place to hitch the horse every time you dismount. Look at all the stops we had to make in our hunt for Jonas. If we'd been on horseback, we'd have had to ..."

When his words ebbed away, Luke glanced curiously in his direction. "What?"

Justin was studying the street behind them. The day's crowds were thinning as the sky darkened. An occasional bobbing light was evidence of a pedestrian's lantern. A cart's wheel had broken, and the driver was cursing loudly as he inspected the damage. The church bells of All Hallows Barking were chiming for Vespers and a few tardy parishioners were straggling in for the Mass. A woman who seemed none too sober had accosted a man passing by, and they'd begun to dicker over terms. Shadow had halted to acknowledge another dog. The street scene appeared perfectly normal, nothing amiss. Still, Justin hesitated, heeding instinct rather than reason.

"What is it?" Luke was picking up now on his unease. "You see something?"

"I guess not..." Justin took a final glance over his shoulder, then shrugged. "I got a sudden prickling at the back of my neck," he confessed. "I suppose I am overly cautious, thanks to the Fleming. For a moment, I had this sense of danger, the way I did in the Durngate mill."

There was no need to elaborate; Luke had been with him when they'd cornered the Fleming over the body of his latest victim. The deputy nodded, for he, too, had learned to trust the inner voice that whispered of unseen enemies, unknown perils. "Never apologize for caution, de Quincy. Without it, no man can hope to make old bones. Now ... what shall we do about supper? Stop at the cookshop or see if we can coax Nell into feeding us again?"

"The alehouse," Justin said, adding emphatically, "Nell owes me a meal. The more I learn about this killing, the less hopeful I feel. Jonas makes a persuasive case for his suspicions. So what do I tell Agnes?"

"Well, look at it this way: By implicating one nephew, you'll be clearing the other."

"Somehow I doubt that will give Agnes much comfort," Justin said dryly. "And which nephew?"

"The younger one," Luke said without hesitation. "If you own a cow, what need have you to steal milk? Why would Geoffrey Aston try to rape the girl if she was coupling with him willingly? No, if this were my case, I'd be looking long and hard at Daniel. Even Agnes admits he was besotted with her. She rebuffs him earlier in the day, when they were heard to quarrel. Nursing a grievance, he confronts her later in the churchyard. She rejects his overtures again, and this time he goes too far. Unfortunately for Agnes, this killing is likely to be right easy to solve."

"I fear so," Justin agreed. "If only - Jesu!" For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure what had happened. There was a blurred motion, a rush of air upon his face, and then a thud. He hastily raised the lantern and his breath caught in his throat at the light's flickering revelation: a dagger still quivering in a wooden door scant inches from his head. Flattening himself against the wall, he flung the lantern into the street to avoid offering a lighted target. Luke had taken cover, too, and for several moments, there was no sound but their labored breathing. By now the street was a sea of heaving shadows, deep enough to drown an army of assassins. They forced themselves to wait, motionless, until they were sure the danger was past. Retrieving the lantern, Luke watched as Justin freed the dagger.

"

It looks like you've been making enemies again, de Quincy. No man would throw away a good knife in a random attack."

When he wrenched the knife loose, Justin noticed the scrap of parchment wrapped around its blade. Holding it toward the lantern's light, he saw a single word scrawled in a bold hand. He read the message, and then gave an angry, incredulous laugh. "Would you believe this is a letter?"

Luke stared at him. "Delivered at knifepoint?"

"See for yourself." Justin held out the parchment fragment toward the deputy. "The queen has a man in John's household. This is his handiwork, warning us that John is at Windsor."

"Jesus God." Luke shook his head in disbelief. "He has an odd way of communicating his messages!"

"You do not know the half of it," Justin said, searching the darkness again for signs of the knife wielder. He knew it was useless, though. Durand was long gone. He'd delivered his warning - with a vengeance - had no reason to linger. Luke was looking again at the hole Durand's knife had gouged in the door. "You know," he said, "he did not miss you by much."

"No," Justin said grimly, "he did not."

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."