"I would never betray your trust, madame — never!"
"I know, Will," she said again, with a patience she rarely showed to others. "A number of people heard Justin de Quincy mention a letter that had cost one life already. Any of them could have told John, inadvertently or otherwise. Most likely it was Durand. He and John share a fondness for dicing and whoring, for all that they barely acknowledge each other in my presence."
Will was shocked, both by the suggestion that John might plant a spy in his mother's household and by Eleanor's matter-of-fact acceptance of it. "My lady… do you think John knows that King Richard is being held prisoner in Austria?"
"I am not sure, Will." Just how much did John know? Had Philip shared his secret? If they were as deeply entangled as she feared, Philip would have sent word straightaway, days before the Archbishop of Rouen was able to obtain his covert copy of the Holy Roman Emperor's gloating letter. And if John had known of Richard's capture and kept silent, that in itself would be an admission of sorts. For silence under such circumstances was suspicious at best, sinister at worst. How far was John willing to go in his quest for his brother's crown?
"Madame?" Peter de Blois was standing in the doorway. "Master de Quincy is here. Shall I admit him?"
Eleanor was taken aback; Justin had been gone barely a week. "Yes, I will see him." When he was ushered into the chamber, she was not reassured by his appearance, for he looked fatigued and uneasy.
"I did not expect you back so soon," she said, once they were alone. "What did you find out?"
"I cannot solve this crime for you, madame. It grieves me that I must fail you, but — "
The door banged open without warning, startling them both. Striding into the chamber, John smiled at his mother, quite nonchalantly, as if their recent clash had never been. "I forgot to ask you, Mother…" He paused, his gaze coming to rest upon Justin. "Do I know you? You look most familiar."
Eleanor started to speak, but Justin was quicker, introducing himself before she could intervene. Watching John closely, she understood then why Justin had not wanted her to lie — John already knew his identity. He was regarding Justin now with a quizzical smile. "Have you brought my lady mother another vital letter, Master de Quincy?"
"A vital letter, my lord?" Justin echoed, with a quizzical smile of his own. "I am here on behalf of the abbot of St Werburgh's in Chester, but it is a routine matter, of no urgency."
Saying nothing, John glanced down at Justin's muddied boots and mantle. No man would come into the queen's presence in such travel-stained dishevelment for "a routine matter, of no urgency." John let his eyes linger upon those mud-caked boots long enough to convey his message: that Justin had lied and he knew it.
Eleanor moved between them. "John? What did you come back to ask me?"
"Well… to tell you true, Mother, it has gone right out of my head. Strange, is it not?"
"Not really," she said dryly. "Memory is a will-o'-the-wisp, unpredictable and wayward."
"Are you talking about memory, weather, … or sons?" And although it was said as a jest, it held one of John's buried barbs.
As soon as John had gone, Justin said, "Downstairs, Lord John was about to depart when he heard Master Peter call out my name. He seems much too curious about me for my peace of mind, my lady. Does he… does he know about the French king's letter?"
"I've told him nothing." Which was true as far as it went. If sins of omission were still sins, did that apply as well to lies of omission? Eleanor had no qualms about lying when necessity demanded it; she'd always thought that honesty was an overrated virtue. But she owed Justin more than half-truths and evasions. She did not want his blood on her hands, not if it could be helped. "John knows that you brought me a letter. But I do not know how much — if anything — the French king has revealed to him."
She could say no more than that. Nor did Justin expect her to; however worried she was about her son, she'd never choose him as a confidant. So he was not surprised when she said briskly, "Now… why do you think you have failed me? You were not able to find any suspects?"
Justin's mouth twisted. "Nay, I found too many. The man's own children had reason to wish him dead. Nor can I rule out his brother. And there will be no help from the law, for the under-sheriff may well have the strongest motive of all!"
"You are saying that the killing was personal?" Eleanor's surprise was evident. "That he was not killed because of the letter?"
"I do not know, my lady," he admitted. "I uncovered motives, but no evidence to link any of them to the crime." And he started then to tell her about his suspects, striving to be both fair and concise.
He confessed that he hoped the killer was not Thomas, simply because he did not want to believe that a man could kill for such a perverted purpose. What could be more diabolic than a piety so twisted and profane that it led to murder?
As for Jonet and Miles, he felt sure that neither one could have acted alone. His impression of Miles was that he was one to need a bit of prodding; he couldn't see a murder plot taking root in such shallow soil. The idea would have had to come from Jonet, but she could not have done it on her own. A lass could not prowl the alehouses and taverns in search of cutthroats and brigands for hire. He was about to explain his reasoning to Eleanor when she cut in, saying impatiently:
"You mentioned the under-sheriff. What reason would he have to want the goldsmith dead?"
"Her name is Aldith Talbot. She was Fitz Randolph's concubine, but I am convinced she and the deputy, Luke de Marston, were lovers ere he was slain. And she is a woman a man might well kill over. If he could have her no other way…"
Justin shrugged, then concluded grimly, "Who would find it easier to make a deal with outlaws than a sheriff's deputy? He'd know any number of felons, hellspawn who'd kill for a pittance. Sheriffs are not often mistaken for earthly saints, madame. Too many have been caught using their office for ill-gotten gains. If a man is already selling justice and collecting bribes, it may not be so great a leap to murder."
Eleanor did not challenge his jaundiced view of sheriffs. So prevalent were complaints of corruption and abuse of power that her husband had convened an Inquest of Sheriffs, and the investigation results had been so damning that almost all of the sheriffs had been dismissed. That was more than twenty years ago, but she had no reason to assume the current crop of sheriffs were any more ethical or honorable than their predecessors. And
if Luke de Marston was corrupt, she did want to know. But she could see that the investigation had gone awry. Rising, she began to pace.
"I am sorry I failed you, madame. But I do not know how to follow the trail any farther, for it goes off in too many directions. I thought if I told you what I'd learned, the sheriff of Hampshire could take it from, there. I know you said you did not want to involve him, but I see no other choice…"
Justin was talking too much and he knew it, but her continued silence was unnerving. Once his words ebbed away, the only sound was the silken rustle of her skirts as she moved restlessly about the chamber. Justin bit his lip, waiting to be dismissed.
"You have not failed me," she said at last. "If there was any failing, it was mine, for I sent you off into unknown territory without a map. Under the circumstances, you did well, learning a great deal in a brief time. But I ought to have been more forthcoming with you."
Eleanor sat down in a window seat, saying nothing for several more suspenseful moments. "Your actions in Winchester were logical and well thought out. But this is not an ordinary murder investigation. There is more at stake than catching the goldsmith's killers, much more."