“Lizzie?” Baldwin pressed gently.
“I usually live here, yes. Sometimes I go away, but I often help Agatha with her cooking and brewing, and she lets me sleep in a room out at the back.”
“Not just sleep, neither,” said a man passing by the table.
She glanced up quickly and retorted, “You keep hoping, John Bacon. When your todger’s grown large enough to please me, maybe I’ll think about showing you what I can do for you.” She turned back to Baldwin apologetically. “Sorry, but Bacon’s always like that.”
Baldwin coughed, and felt his face redden. His only compensation was that he could almost feel the heat radiating from the face of the port-reeve. It was plain enough that the girl could see his confusion. She leaned forward to rest a cheek on her hand, and the movement pulled her tunic tight over her breast. He found it difficult to keep his eyes on her face as she looked innocently at him. Her eyebrow flickered upward, just the once, in a quick movement he could have easily missed-but her expression showed she knew he hadn’t. “Um. So who, er, who was here last night?”
“Last night? Oh, there were lots of men,” she said, and he was sure she was teasing him. “Elias, and Will Ruby, the port-reeve here…” Baldwin noted the comment. She was bright enough to make sure that the port-reeve was implicated “…and lots of others. Elias spent time talking to some stranger, and there was a father and his son from foreign parts, some watchmen, a friar, and Roger Torre, and…Oh, I don’t know who else.”
“It is Torre we are interested in,” Baldwin said. “How well do you know him?”
Her mouth widened into a broad grin. “What do you want to know?”
“Lizzie, Torre is dead.”
Her amusement vanished, and her posture changed. “You think the dead man was Roger? That’s daft…I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, why wasn’t it announced immediately? Everyone’s been thinking it was a stranger.”
“Because with his head off we couldn’t tell,” Holcroft said bluntly and took a long pull at his ale.
She stared. Everyone in the tavern knew the body was headless, but it hadn’t occurred to her it might be Roger. “But why?”
“That is why we are here,” Baldwin explained. “We know he was with you last night. We are trying to find out whether he said something, or maybe you saw somebody arguing with him-anything.”
“If it’s true, let me see his body.”
Baldwin waved a hand, and Daniel stood. He walked to the door. After a moment Lizzie followed him. A few minutes later, she was back, her face pale.
“Drink this,” Baldwin said, pushing his pot toward her.
She accepted it gratefully. Picking it up in both hands she drained it. When she set it back down on the table, Baldwin could see that her hands were shaking. “It’s Torre all right,” she said harshly. “And the only man I know who could have done this was him!” She pointed a quivering finger at the port-reeve.
11
A rthur Pole swirled the wine in his goblet and stared into it thoughtfully. His wife sat serenely in her favorite position by the fire, stitching at a tapestry. Outwardly she was calm and spoke with what might have sounded to an outsider to be indifference, but Arthur knew otherwise. This was her tone of sweet reasonability. It was the one she used when she wanted one of the servants to understand very clearly what she expected. Arthur knew she used it on him as well when she thought he had failed her in a spectacular manner.
It was unfair. He had done nothing today to merit this treatment. As far as he was concerned, he’d tried to keep that blasted Venetian from his daughter. Cammino had not appeared on his doorstep at Arthur’s invitation: it was all down to Avice. She had contrived it, not him.
Arthur was used to being treated as a delinquent by his wife when she considered he had fallen below the high standard of so important a merchant and Guild member, and he had grown inured to a daughter who thought of him only as a personal bank with unlimited resources and no interest charges, but it rankled that his wife should lecture him on the type of man he should be thinking of for his only child.
“John would be a very good match for her,” Marion was saying as she imperturbably finished a stitch and selected a fresh thread. “True, he has no money himself, but his father, Sir Reginald, owns a good portion of land and four villages. Avice will be well provided for. And Sir Reginald has connections to the de Courtenay family as well, so John will make the perfect father to her children.”
Her husband looked up to see his servant waiting by the door. He drained his cup and motioned for a refill.
Marion noticed the movement. “Haven’t you had enough, dear? You drank a lot with that man earlier.”
“‘That man,’ as you call him, is the leading cloth merchant in Winchester. He could be worth a small fortune to me.”
“I should hope so, the amount you spent on wine for him.”
“How do you expect me to make friends and fresh contacts in business if I don’t sometimes buy them presents? Have you learned nothing about business in the time we have been married?”
“Oh, yes. I have learned much since you married me,” she retorted tartly. “I had to, I wasn’t used to such things before.”
Arthur took the goblet from his man and jerked his head to send him from the room. He recognized the acid preamble to the usual complaint, and did not want it witnessed.
“After all, husband, when I wed you I was the daughter of a knight.”
“Yes, dear.”
“He came from an old family. I was lucky he agreed to let me marry you.”
“Because I was only the son of a cobbler.”
“You were of…lesser nobility,” Marion nodded, adding complacently, “but I could see you were an honorable man.”
Arthur felt stung into retaliation. “I was already wealthy, and your father needed money.”
“That had nothing to do with it.”
“Marion, your father couldn’t afford to feed you.”
“That is untrue!” Her eyes blazed with indignation.
Arthur put his goblet down. “My only saving grace was the money I had amassed over the years. If it wasn’t for that, your father would have refused me. He needed my money.”
She looked at him with cold fury. Marion was not a hard woman. She had married Arthur when he was still relatively unknown, and had learned to accept some of the curious attitudes and beliefs he had held, but gradually over the years she had managed to educate him to a level of gentility. He could never aspire to being a real gentleman, since he didn’t possess nobility of birth, but for all that she was quite sure she could improve her family’s standing in their town, and one method of achieving that was to make sure that her daughter married well. It was important, not only for Marion, but for Avice herself. How much better it would be for her if she could marry a man with status. Her father could provide the money.
She swallowed her pride-Holy Mother, how often she had needed to do that over the years!-and forced herself to nod understandingly. “Arthur, you are a good man, and your business skills have made you successful, but can you not see that what I want for Avice is what is best for her and for her children?”
“She has no children.”
“The children she will have. She must be in a position to look after our grandchildren. That means she must find a husband of suitable rank, and the only one we know of is John.” It was true, she knew, that John was ignorant and more than a little stupid, but what could one expect from a rural squire? He was really little more than a farmer.