Cruel As the Grave (8 page)

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?"