Friday, 16 October
Jack managed to evade the sheriff. He sat on the roof opposite the tinker shop, crouched low in the shadow of the chimney. He couldn’t go home. The sheriffs knew where he lived. He couldn’t believe they would arrest him for those murders, but wasn’t that just like the sheriffs? Didn’t care who the real culprit was. They only wanted their writ done and over with. Never mind that the wrong man hanged for it.
He tapped his lip. Where to go? It wouldn’t be much better going to the Boar’s Tusk, but at least there were places to hide there. It seemed his only alternative. He had to remain free or he couldn’t help his master. And, of course, himself, for they would never bother looking for another culprit once they had Jack.
He slid backwards and up over the peak of the roof and down the other side. He landed in a heap in the back courtyard of a poulterer’s, scattering the hens and surprising a spotted dog who, rather than call the alarm, trotted forward and placed his forepaws on Jack’s chest, urging him to play. He patted the dog on the head and edged toward the fence.
‘Good dog,’ he said, climbing one leg then the other over the wattle fence. ‘We’ll play another day.’ He put his finger to his lips and the dog obliged, merely wagging its tail and panting with a wide smile and a lolling tongue. If only the sheriff’s men would be as cooperative.
He trotted, keeping to the shadows and staying amongst the crowds, taking the long way around to Gutter Lane. Once he slipped through, he kept on trotting till he got to the tavern but decided to keep going until he could get around to the back into their courtyard by the kitchens. He hopped up to the wall and dropped down to the other side, never looking where he was going.
He noticed the person too late, grabbed hold of them, and rolled along the ground. When he landed on top, he felt the soft pliant body against his own before he opened his eyes and beheld wide hazel eyes and a snub nose.
‘Oh! Blind me! I beg your mercy, Mistress Langton!’ He scrambled to his feet and leaned over to help up Gilbert’s niece.
Flustered, she took his hand and when she regained her feet she stared into his eyes for a long moment before brushing harshly at her cotehardie and apron. ‘Master Tucker. You took me unawares. I wasn’t expecting … such an abrupt entrance!’
‘Forgive me. Are you hurt?’
She rubbed at her elbow with a wince but shook her head.
‘I have hurt you. Curse me for my impetuosity! My master is always berating me for that. Here, let’s have a look.’ She allowed him to take her arm. She had untied and discarded her long cotehardie sleeves in her work, so he pushed up the sleeve of her white linen shift, gently turning her arm. ‘You might have a bruise there. Is it very painful?’
She slowly took her arm back, rolling down the sleeve and cradling the elbow. ‘No. It will be fine. Why were you climbing over the wall?’
‘Oh. Well, it’s a long tale, one for Gilbert if he’s about.’
‘He’s below in the mews. I’ll take you.’
‘No need, lass. I know the way.’
‘But he doesn’t like strangers to come below.’
Jack offered a sunny smile. ‘I’m no stranger here, lass.’
She raised her nose haughtily. ‘Nevertheless. Come with me.’ She moved forward, brooking no argument with her posture. Clutching her skirts, she raised the hem over the mud. She ducked through a door at the back of the stone foundation of the tavern and he followed. There were perks to following her, of course. He noticed how the apron strings cinched her waist, saw the swing of her hips and the plump of a round backside. So preoccupied was he at his observation that he nearly missed a step and stumbled.
She gave him a scolding look back over her shoulder and he straightened, offering her a serious expression.
‘Uncle Gilbert! Here’s that boy to see you again. Jack Tucker.’
Gilbert popped out from behind stacked barrels. ‘Well, Young Jack. What’s the word?’
‘The word, Master Gilbert, is not good. I am being pursued by the sheriffs for murder as well.’
‘What?’ He grabbed Jack’s shoulder and pulled him deeper into the room. The three of them stood within the nimbus of a small candle on a table. Gilbert set his jug aside. ‘Tell me!’
Jack pushed his hood back and ran his hand through his curly hair. ‘It’s like this, Master Gilbert. I was helping to investigate a murder – another woman strangled. And I thought to m’self, “Aha! If I can prove the knave what done this, it will set my master free.” But the sheriff saw it different. Thought it was me doing the deed to throw the sheriffs off the scent of my master. I swear by my soul, Gilbert, that I’d never do such a thing!’
‘Oh, lad, I know that. Everyone what knows you knows that.’
Jack nodded, relieved at the words.
‘They’re after me. I can’t go home. I’m asking most humbly if I can stay here. Well hidden, of course. I don’t want no trouble for you and yours.’ He glanced back at Isabel, nodding to her.
Before Gilbert could speak, Ned ran up, catching himself on the doorway. ‘Master Gilbert. The sheriff is here to see you.’
‘The sheriff?’ He exchanged looks with Jack. ‘Jack, my lad. You go hide amongst the barrels. You know what to do.’
Jack sprinted away into the shadows. The smell of musty wine and stale ale was stronger amid the weeping barrels. He almost shimmied into a tight place between them but thought better of it. Isn’t that the first place they’d look? He glanced upward to the top of the wide tuns and began to climb. Carefully, he hugged the barrel’s sides with his thighs, dug in with his fingers, and pulled himself up. He flattened himself across the top just as the sheriff stalked through the doorway.
‘You are the tavern keeper,’ bellowed Sheriff Walcote.
Gilbert bowed. ‘Aye, my lord. Gilbert Langton.’
‘I am aware that you know well Crispin Guest and his miscreant apprentice. Is that boy here?’
Gilbert shook his head in all sincerity. ‘No, my lord.’
The sheriff moved closer, shoving his face close to Gilbert’s. ‘Do you know that if you are lying I can arrest you as an accessory … to murder?’
‘My lord, I give you my solemn oath. That boy is not in my tavern.’
The sheriff snorted, eyes narrowed. He turned his gaze to Isabel, who cowered next to her uncle. ‘What about you, lass? Have you seen that boy? Remember, it is a sin to lie and believe me, you would not want to be tossed to the fires of Hell for the likes of that knave.’
She looked up at Gilbert with eyes bright as bezants.
Ah, Jack, you’re doomed! She’s such an innocent creature. She won’t be able to lie. And he didn’t want her to. He didn’t want her to suffer for him. The sheriff might even strike her, and he could not have that sin on his soul. He flattened his hands on the barrel, getting ready to rise, when he heard her in a clear voice say, ‘No, good my lord. I have seen no one.’
‘Jack Tucker? Hard to miss. Tall boy with bright ginger hair? You say you haven’t seen him?’
She looked the sheriff straight in the eye and never wavered. ‘No, my lord.’
The sheriff scowled, looking for all the world as if he might draw back his arm and hit her anyway. Jack didn’t know what he would do if that happened. He’d surely jump on the sheriff’s back and beat him … until he was torn off him by the serjeants and either beaten to a pulp himself or thrown in gaol, dead for sure.
But Walcote did nothing more than spin on his heel, march up the steps, and was gone.
Isabel crept up the stairs and slowly peered out. She turned back. ‘You can come out now, Master Tucker.’
Jack jumped up and slid down the side of the barrel, landing squarely on his feet. He rushed up to Isabel, eyes tracking over her face. ‘You were as brave as a saint!’
She smiled charmingly. ‘It’s easy to lie to a villain. He deserves no less.’
‘Demoiselle, I am ever in your debt.’ He bowed.
Her smile had not faded. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Here now,’ said Gilbert, a worried look to his face. ‘You leave Jack be. Will you stay here in the mews, Jack?’
‘For tonight at least, Master Gilbert, if it contents you. Tomorrow I must continue to investigate for my master. But, er … might I trouble you for a scrap of food and mayhap a little ale? It’s parching work, tracking.’
Gilbert laughed and put his hand on Isabel’s slender shoulder. ‘Of course, lad. Now stay out of sight. There are too many eyes who would love to get their palms greased by the sheriff.’
Jack took his advice. And later, Isabel brought him a tray of meat. He would have liked it if Isabel had stayed to talk with him, but Eleanor came looking for her. She gave Jack a squinted eye and Isabel scurried away. At nightfall, he wrapped himself in his cloak, tucked himself into a dark corner, and promptly fell asleep.
Come morning, he stretched, ate the hardened bread from the night before, drank the ale in the jug, and prepared himself to depart. His hand was poised to grab the latch when the door suddenly yanked open. He might have made an unmanly yelp, but Isabel only looked a bit startled. She stood there, a basin of water held in both hands, with a towel draped over her shoulder. ‘I thought you might like to wash. Before you left.’
‘Ah, demoiselle. I thank you.’ He took the basin from her and retreated back down the steps. He placed the basin on the table, and by the time he turned, she was there, offering him the towel.
He unbuttoned and rolled up his coat sleeves and sluiced his face. He wiped his cheeks and brows with the cloth, then dipped his finger in the basin to brush his teeth, scrubbing them dry with a corner of the towel. ‘I thank you, demoiselle …’
‘You can call me Isabel. I mean … after all. I heard that you and Master Crispin are here often. It … it seems foolish to remain formal under those circumstances.’
‘Aye. I agree. You …’ He stepped closer, looking down at her. Her hair was combed and parted in the middle, partially covered in a brightly clean linen kerchief. ‘You can call me … Jack. That wouldn’t go amiss.’
She raised her eyes to him once, before lowering them. She hid the action by gathering the basin and crumpled towel. ‘Where do you go now?’
‘Well, there is a house to which I must go to and question the people inside.’ He sighed. ‘But I am vexed that the sheriff might be waiting for me there. God’s blood! But I must talk to them people!’
‘Could I …’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Could I help?’
A ‘no’ was on the tip of his tongue. But as he thought about it – took in her angelic face, its fresh purity – he thought about what the steward of the household might say to her, to a pretty, young face. ‘Well now. That’s a thought, demois— Isabel. But we must talk first to Gilbert. He may not wish for you to help me. It’s dangerous work, sometimes. Oftentimes, I am running for me life.’
‘I can run,’ she said. She raised her face to his, hazel eyes bright.
Slowly he returned her smile. ‘I’ll wager you can at that. Come, then.’ He urged her forth, and he followed her up the stairs and into the warm tavern. Eleanor was taking coins from a patron when she looked up and spied them. Her brows immediately lowered and she clutched the coins in her fist, grabbed her skirts, and marched toward them.
‘Uh oh,’ Jack muttered. He straightened his posture to greet her, and when she was before him he bowed formally. ‘I thank you, Mistress Eleanor, for succoring me last night when I sorely needed it. I will convey your generosity to Master Crispin.’
‘None of that now,’ she said, smacking his shoulder. ‘Don’t you try that on me, Jack Tucker. I know what part of London you are from, no mistaking. What are the two of you doing together?’
‘Begging your pardon, madam, but we are not “together”, as you say. Mistress Langton here was merely leading the way. We wish to talk to you and Gilbert if it’s convenient.’
She drilled her glare into him before she raised her chin and bellowed, ‘Gil-bert!’
It was early and there were few patrons, but heads turned. Gilbert rumbled up, looking the trio over. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘Are you aware that your niece is consorting with Tucker, here?’
He laughed. ‘The lad isn’t ‘consorting’, my love. He’s a guest. And she is being properly hospitable.’
But even as the words left his mouth, Isabel drew forward. ‘Uncle, Jack needs my help. He cannot do his job to help his master and I offered to go with him.’
Gilbert drew back, looking at the two anew. ‘What?’ He shook his head, his jowls jiggling. ‘No, lass. That’s not proper work for the likes of you.’ And then he swung on Jack. ‘Did you propose this to her?’
‘Well …’ He looked from one angry adult to the other. ‘Well … she … she understands my predicament, Master Gilbert. She offered. It seemed like a good idea … at the time. But I know there are dangers. And so, as I said, Isabel—’
‘“Isabel” is it?’ muttered Gilbert.
‘I told her we must ask your permission. And I see you will not grant it. No harm done, then.’ He bowed to Isabel. ‘I thank you for your kind offer, demoiselle. But I must try to do this on me own. Thank you Gilbert, Eleanor, for your hospitality. God grant that I will be safe tonight.’ He swept them all with a glance. ‘Farewell, then.’
He pivoted on his heel, tossed his hood up over his head, and strode to the door. He hovered in the doorway, looking both ways down the street to see if the sheriff’s men hid there. He pulled the hood down lower to shadow his face, ducked his head, and plunged into the street. He had to get into the Peverel household somehow. And then he’d have to go back to those places where the women had been strangled.
He took the roundabout way to Trinity Street and stopped at the corner, peering around the edge of a shop. The street was filling with shopkeepers, shoppers, and other townsfolk. He saw no livery and gave a sigh of relief. He was about to step out to the main thoroughfare when a man came out of the shadows. A serjeant. He wore the sheriffs colors and he was scanning the street. Jack drew back around the corner and pressed his back against the wall. God’s blood! Just as he thought. They were lying in wait for him. How was he to get in now?
A hand suddenly on his arm caused him to whip around, knife drawn.
‘God’s blood! Isabel, don’t do that! What are you doing here?’
‘I came to help.’
‘Your uncle changed his mind?’ Her eyes flicked away. ‘He didn’t!’ Grabbing her arm he marched her back down the lane. ‘You’re going back, do you hear? Your uncle is a man of honor and if he says no, no is what he meant.’
She wrenched her arm away and stood her ground, hands at her hips. ‘You don’t tell me what to do! Everyone has my best interests at heart! Fie! When my father died, all my relatives were so solicitous, all trying to tell me what to do, which way to turn. Looking to get their hands on his money, more like.’ She leaned back against the wall and bit at a nail. ‘When my mother died all those years ago,’ she said quietly, ‘I took over the duties of mistress of the household. It wasn’t as if I was a simpleton. I was ten! And I did it right well. My father told me so. Did the books … with his help. But now that he’s gone, I couldn’t very well shift for myself. And I couldn’t run the cooperage on my own. Uncle Gilbert was the only one who gave me a place and put me to work, without thinking first about what he was to gain from it. He never mentioned my dowry, never tried to take it. And by all rights he could have. But of all of them, he’s most like my father, is Uncle Gilbert. Though he’s never had a child, never knew what willful beasts we can be, he’s been kind. I do as he says because he is kind to me. But I am myself and for many years I decided. I’m fifteen, after all. I’ve used my own head for years.’
Jack studied her. ‘Willful beast’ was right! But more like a … a cat, going her own way. He couldn’t help but smile and turned away to hide it. ‘But no one wants a shrewish wife.’
‘I’m no shrew. I’m … resourceful. I’ve survived my mother’s death and now my father’s. And I’ll go on. And I’ll be obedient to my aunt and uncle because of their kindness. But not in all things.’
‘I’m an orphan, too,’ he said quietly, half an eye on the street around them. ‘Master Crispin took me in. He lets me have me own mind, too, though I obey him because he’s clever and knows the ways of the world. But you being a girl, well. That’s not the same, is it? Your uncle is a fine and honorable man. It’s well and good to have your own mind – you’ll need it when you run the Boar’s Tusk someday. But for now, you are his niece, his ward, and you must obey. Scripture teaches us that the woman must heed the man of the house. In the Lord woman is not independent of man.’
‘… Nor man of woman, so it also says.’
‘Ah, lass. You know your Scripture.’ Too well. ‘Harken. The point is, you must obey your uncle as if he were your father.’ He folded his arms over his chest, thinking. The fact of the matter was, she was here now. And he needed her. The rest could be sorted later. ‘Very well. You must deal with your uncle and accept his punishment for your disobedience.’
She appeared sullen and cast her eyes downward.
‘But I do need you, Isabel. And I thank God for your presence.’
Brightening, she lifted her face to his. Something in his chest shifted, thumped. He blinked it away and looked back toward the corner. ‘The sheriff’s men are expecting me alone. But with you, they will not be looking too close. I hope. Will you … will you go with me?’
‘Yes! That’s what I’m here for.’
He secured his hood and helped her adjust her kerchief to cover more of her face. With head down, he wove his arm in hers, and plunged onto Trinity. They walked at a steady pace. Jack glanced up carefully from under his hood toward the sheriff’s man. The serjeant’s gaze swept over them and continued on, searching. Jack sent up a prayer of thanks before they approached the Peverel household. He knocked and waited. With the sly movement of his other hand, he crept Isabel’s kerchief back, revealing more of her face. She looked at him questioningly when the door opened.
The steward noted Jack first and then Isabel, where his gaze fastened.
‘We are here to see the mistress of the household,’ said Jack urgently.
The steward gave him only cursory attention. ‘And whom shall I say calls?’
‘The Tracker’s apprentice.’
His head snapped toward Jack and appraised him anew. ‘I see. I was told by the sheriff’s men to alert them should you come to the door.’
‘I beg you, sir, do not. For we are here on an errand of mercy. To discover a foul murderer. An innocent man’s life hangs in the balance. And the sheriffs care nothing for that.’
The steward’s level gaze measured them. He nodded. ‘This I know. Word has it that the Tracker himself is being tried for a murder this very day.’
‘I knew it! I knew the sheriffs wouldn’t wait. Do you see that, sir? Who gets a trial two days after they’re arrested, eh? Only a man the sheriffs are trying to put away. Do you see how urgent is my cause, sir?’
‘Then make haste inside. For the sheriff’s serjeant is looking this way.’
Jack dared not look over his shoulder. Instead, he grasped Isabel’s arm tightly and shoved her inside, following quickly on her heels.
The steward told them to wait in the foyer and they stood. Jack was still clutching Isabel’s arm and quickly released her. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
She looked all around the foyer and then settled her gaze on Jack. ‘This is like my father’s house, but his was much smaller.’
‘If you had such fine things, why did you come to Gilbert’s to live? Could they not have come to yours, taken over your father’s business?’
‘Uncle Gilbert doesn’t know the coopering trade and neither did I. Not enough of it. My father needed sons, but got only me. The household items were sold to pay his debts and the rest – what little there was – was granted to my nearest relative – my uncle. He put it away for my dowry.’
‘Then you are blessed indeed. Well, I mean …’
‘I know what you mean. It could have gone worse for me. Uncle Gilbert and Aunt Eleanor are good to me.’
They stood in silence for a moment before she asked, ‘Why did you pull my kerchief back when you were so careful to push it forward before?’
‘Ah. Well, I knew the steward would be distracted by your beauty.’
She made a little gasp, eyes wide.
Jack felt his cheeks warming. ‘And … it worked.’
He said nothing more, but he felt her sharp gaze upon him.
The steward returned and told them to follow. Jack sensed Isabel behind him and now he felt like a proper fool. You didn’t just blurt out to a lass that she was a beauty! Of all the addle-pated things to do! You were supposed to woo her slowly, carefully. That’s what Master Crispin had told him when he had asked about it.
Wait. Was he wooing her? She was no wench to bed for a simple tumble and then leave behind. This was Gilbert’s niece. She was untouchable. At least in the carefree manner of his master with women.
But what if she was for wooing? A man had to settle down someday. And she seemed like a good prospect for a man like Jack. Surely his master would approve. But what of Gilbert?
He tucked those thoughts away for later consideration when they passed through a solar into a garden. A woman sat at her embroidery stand. A red squirrel with a bejeweled collar and silver leash was perched upon her shoulder, gnawing on an acorn.
‘Madam Peverel. The Tracker’s apprentice, Jack Tucker.’
Jack raised his brows. He had not given his name but realized that the sheriff’s serjeant might have mentioned it. Either that or his own infamy was tied to that of the Tracker’s.
Madam Peverel looked up for only a moment, taking him in and then Isabel, before she returned her attention to her embroidery. ‘I have already spoken to your master, Master Tucker. Why are you here?’
‘Madam, my master is in great peril. He was only seeking the truth in the matter of the death of Elizabeth le Porter but he was accused of her murder instead. Please, madam. To save him I need answers.’
Slowly she put down her needle and turned in her chair. The squirrel hopped down to her lap, where she stroked it absently. But being an excitable creature, the squirrel could only rest but a moment before it leapt to her shoulder and then a platform. ‘What can I tell you that I did not already tell your master?’
‘Indeed, madam. What?’
They both fell silent, each staring intently at the other. But Madam Peverel blinked first. ‘This is an unusual occupation you and your master have chosen,’ she said, picking up her needle again and giving her embroidery her attention.
For several silent moments Jack watched her stitch. His breathing was so harsh he was certain the steward, whom he could see just beyond the doorway, must have heard him.
But her façade had cracked. Her fingers trembled and she laid them down on the linen of her stretcher stand. ‘Perhaps … if you shared what you know, Master Tucker.’
‘Very well. I know that John and Walter Noreys hired Mistress le Porter to steal your Virgin’s Tears.’
Her eyes were like two furies swooping down with murder in their hearts. She rose so abruptly the squirrel chittered and leapt down from the platform. But the leash made its escape impossible. ‘How dare they! I shall call the law down on them.’
‘The law of God has already fallen upon one of them, for John Noreys is dead. My master … killed him in self-defense.’
Isabel made a sound of shock behind him, but he heard her stifle it behind her hand.
It took a long moment for Madam Peverel to hastily cross herself. But it looked more as if she wanted to say, ‘Good riddance.’
‘The Noreyses, madam. Who are they to you?’
‘Miscreants. Devils, apparently. Did one of them kill Elizabeth?’
‘That … has yet to be determined. Why would they kill her if they had clearly hoped that she had done the deed they hired her to do?’
‘I cannot know. Only if … if she had not done what they wanted, might they wish to silence her so that she would speak to no one of it?’
He nodded. ‘That is my contention as well, madam. Would you be willing to testify as to their character?’
‘I most certainly would.’
‘Oh, madam! I would be grateful to you for such a boon! Thank you.’ He bowed and made ready to leave when something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, poked and prodded. It was as if his master was speaking to him over his shoulder. Had he not heard him enough over the last six years when interrogating a witness?
He stopped in mid-step and abruptly turned back. ‘Madam, may I ask one thing more? Are you … are you quite sure that she didn’t steal the Tears?’
Her murderous expression was back. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Well … a thorough one, madam. One my master would expect of me. You see, there has been many a time when an object – say a jewel in a ring or on a chest – was stolen and replaced with a duplicate. So that the owner would not know it was missing. Is it possible that something like that could have occurred?’
Not only was Madam Peverel staring at him, but Isabel’s mouth had dropped open as well.
Madam Peverel rose and fisted her hands over her belly. ‘I see nothing can be done until you are satisfied. Come with me, young man.’
The squirrel made a leap for her shoulder and was content to hold on with its tiny claws. She stalked ahead, and Jack and Isabel followed.
They pursued her down a long corridor to a chapel door. She unlocked it and opened it for him, showing him the chapel within but not inviting him inside. ‘There, on the small altar, is the monstrance containing the Virgin’s Tears.’
Jack peered into the gloom and saw the gold of the monstrance gleam from the single candle flame. Behind a locked grille was the golden casket containing what looked like a phial no bigger than a man’s palm filled with some clear liquid. The casket sported golden radiant beams, made of gilt wood or metal.
Jack’s eyes widened. He marveled at such things and was grateful that he had a chance to observe these most precious of objects so closely, even though his master was not as enamored. Indeed, his master would doubt its authenticity, disdain the qualities attributed to it. Often he’d question why God would allow these items and their power into the greedy hands of man.
‘It is there,’ she said, ‘as it has ever been.’
Jack pushed his awe aside and took on the mantle of his master. ‘Very well, madam. The Noreys family believes it belongs to them.’
‘It does not! Years and years ago my departed husband – a blessed man – obtained it for me. But wretched have I been ever since, for it only brings grief to those around it. You know the tale.’
‘Forgive me, madam, but I do not.’
Absently, she stroked the fluffy squirrel tail lying upon her shoulder. ‘The Tears can heal, but they also confer the pain felt by others upon those around them. In this household, we greatly suffer the pain of the heart as well as the body of one another. It was why Elizabeth left me. She could no longer bear the grief of others.’
‘That is a sore thing indeed.’
‘Yes. But it is my burden to bear for the sake of our Lord, who suffered for our sins.’
‘Aye. That is the truth of it.’
She pulled the door closed again and smartly locked it. With her hands clutching the keys, she glared down her nose at Jack. ‘Well? Is there anything more? I fear I have helped you little in your cause.’
‘No, madam. I shall obtain a writ to have you come to the Guildhall for my master’s trial.’
‘Then God speed you on your way, young man.’ It was a firm dismissal.
‘Thank you, madam.’ He bowed and Isabel curtseyed.
They all retreated together down the passage. At the solar, Madam Peverel went one way back to the garden, while Jack and Isabel went the other, back toward the entrance where they were greeted by the steward. Jack tapped his chin in thought, absently stroking the few hairs there. ‘Master Steward?’
The man stepped closer. ‘Yes?’
‘Have you ever seen the relic in the chapel? The Virgin’s Tears?’
‘Oh yes. Many a time. On Sundays the household take communion there.’
‘I see. Have you ever observed it closely?’
‘Well … I supervise the cleaning of the chapel. I am always present when the scullion cleans the altar and scrubs the floor.’
‘Have you ever noted a change in its appearance?’
He frowned. ‘I do not understand your meaning.’
‘Have the tears in its phial ever looked different to you? Fuller? Emptier?’
He shook his head, still frowning. ‘No.’
‘And Master Steward, are you aware of the relic’s power?’
He gave a wan smile. ‘My mistress exclaims that it has properties to force those around it to feel each other’s pain.’
‘Aye. That’s what she told me.’
The steward looked carefully around and slowly shook his head. ‘I have never felt this of my person. At first, I thought it was a fault of mine. I prayed on it. I fasted. For I felt that I somehow lacked the empathy required of my faith. But after hearing the same from the other servants, I concluded that the tales must be false.’
‘Hold. Are you saying that—’ He looked around, too, hoping Madam Peverel was well and truly ensconced in her garden. ‘Are you saying,’ he said softly, ‘that none of the servants in this household did feel the pain and suffering of one another?’
‘Not in the sense you mean. Of course we are sensitive to each other’s grief – living in common as we do – but we did not suffer what it is said the Virgin’s Tears confer.’
‘And how long have you served in this household, Master Steward?’
‘More than ten years. After my father. And before the master died.’
‘Were you here, then, when the Virgin’s Tears were brought into the house?’
‘Yes. My father oversaw the construction of the altar’s grille and monstrance. It was a very great honor.’
‘But you never felt this suffering attributed to the Tears?’
‘No, as I have said.’
Jack frowned. He looked back down the corridor toward the chapel, he glanced back toward the doorway leading to the garden, then up the stairs toward, he presumed, the bedchambers. Something definitely was not right.
His final glance was toward the front entrance. ‘Master Steward, is there another way out of here?’
‘Yes. It’s in the back.’
‘Can you take us there? I would confound the sheriff’s men for as long as possible.’
With a jerk of his head, the steward motioned for them to follow. They passed through a narrow door, down some stairs, through the warm kitchens with their savory smells of smoke and roasted flesh, and out the back garden. A wall surrounded it but another locked door was there in the wall, which the steward unlocked and stepped out of. He hastily looked around and came back. ‘It is clear, Master Tucker. Will you help my mistress? This death has affected her so.’
‘I will do my best, sir.’ He nodded his thanks, took Isabel’s hand, and darted out the door. It was closed and locked behind him, and he found himself in an alley. ‘Come on.’ Still holding her hand, Jack trotted away toward Walbrook and didn’t slow until he saw no signs of any man who looked to be in livery.
He dropped Isabel’s hand and smiled. ‘I thank you for that. It was most useful. And now to get you back to Gutter Lane before Master Gilbert finds you missing.’
‘This is an unusual occupation you have.’
‘Aye. I sort of … er, tumbled into it. But it’s a fine way to use your mind. My master is one of the cleverest in all the kingdom. He’s schooled, he is. And he’s taught me plenty. Oh, not just reading and writing, but of the philosophers and history. And arms. Master Crispin … he’s an unusual man.’
‘Is it hard being a Tracker?’
‘Well.’ He puffed out his chest a bit as he walked. ‘It’s taken me years to learn the skills of my master, and I improve every day. It’s a lot to learn, though. You have to learn to truly listen to what your witnesses say. As my master says, it’s what they don’t say what says the most.’
‘Jack,’ she said thoughtfully as they slowly made their way up to Poultry Street, ‘I’ve been thinking about what Madam Peverel said. Just as you say, I listened to her words. And if the murdered woman left because she felt too keenly the grief of others … when no one else in the household felt it … what does that mean?’
Jack smiled. She had listened. He liked this Isabel Langton. Liked her pretty face, her sparkling eyes, and the fact that there was something more than just a silly maid’s notions behind them.
‘Well, one of two things. First, that Elizabeth le Porter did steal the relic. Or … Madam Peverel was lying.’