Authors: Jeri Westerson
“No. I mean, what did you say? Just now.”
“Er…y-you said ‘I am myself’ and I said ‘that’s your true image, right enough.’ But I didn’t mean nought by it.”
“What made you say ‘true image’?”
Jack scratched his flat chin. “Dunno. It just popped out of me mouth.”
Crispin’s wine-dampened mind rolled the thoughts one over the other. True image. So many “true images” from so many false ones. “I’ve been distracted.” He chuckled, though it came from no place near good humor. “A pretty face will do that. I’ve been acting like a child.” He looked at Jack’s eager expression, sometimes as wily as Robin Goodfellow, sometimes as frightened as an infant. “There is a cloth I am supposed to find and it very well may have to do with murder. Let this ‘true self’ concentrate on that.”
Instead of entering through the Walcote front door, Crispin and Jack walked around to the servant’s entrance situated in a dingy alley smelling of moldy vegetables and rotting bones from past feasts. An old woman with matted hair under a stained kerchief was just opening the door and looked up at Crispin. Her etched features were accentuated by grime and bore a strong resemblance to a castle’s stony exterior.
“And who might you be?” She glared at Crispin but aimed an eye at Jack, hiding behind Crispin’s left flank. “This is the Walcote kitchens. It ain’t Westminster Palace where all come and go as they like.” Several of her front teeth were missing and those that remained were black or gray. She brandished a long cooking fork that Crispin didn’t like the look of.
“I am Crispin Guest, woman. I am here investigating the heinous crime of your master’s murder.”
She gave his clothes a quick scrutiny. “You?”
“Bless my soul! Friend Crispin!” John Hoode rushed forward. Surprised to see the man he met at the brazier, Crispin was nevertheless relieved. “Stupid woman! This is Crispin Guest. He’s a friend of mine.”
“I am glad to be so acquainted,” said Crispin. “Master Hoode, I see your fortunes have turned.”
“Aye. I’m in the kitchen now. Going to try to give the mistress a chance at hiring
you,
eh?”
“Well, in point of fact, I
am
working for her. I am trying to discover the culprit who killed Master Walcote.”
“No! Then I was right about you. You are an educated man.”
“Of a sort.”
“Oh!” said the woman. “You’re that man I seen in the hall with the mistress.”
Crispin flicked a nod at her. “Yes. I only wish to ask a few questions concerning your master.”
“Oh it’s a sad, sad thing, it is. Who would do a thing like that?”
“Indeed. That is what I wish to know.”
“He was a good and fair master, m’lord. Always a kind word to all.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Since five years now.”
“Has anyone worked here longer than five years?”
“Well now.” She put a dirt-blackened finger to her temple and scratched. “Only Master Becton would have been here longer. He’s the one what hired me and the others.”
Crispin offered a smile bereft of mirth. “I see. May I look in the hall? Is the way locked?”
“The mistress no longer locks all the inner doors. Just go through that passage. Mind your head. It’s a low ceiling.”
“I will see you again, Crispin,” said Hoode, and he glanced at Jack a little suspiciously. Jack glared back.
Crispin entered the kitchens. There were two hearths flickering with light, each tended by a young boy. Other kitchen servants stopped their chopping or dough kneading to watch Crispin and Jack as they passed through, but no one spoke to them. Jack strained his neck looking back curiously when they arrived at a low passageway that led across a courtyard to the rear of the great hall.
“What are we looking for?” asked Jack, once the kitchens were far behind.
“I’m not certain.”
“Why did you ask that old woman how long she worked here?”
“Because apparently there is no one in this household who has been here longer than five years.”
“Is that unusual?”
“In most houses, Jack, generations serve their masters.”
“Aye, but maybe Walcote has not been rich for generations.”
“True. I shall have to make inquiries.”
They reached the far edge of the hall and passed under its arch only to encounter Philippa Walcote. She and Crispin stood apart in mutual assessment before her face passed from surprise to anger. “Why are
you
here?” she said.
Crispin smiled a lopsided grin. “Why does everyone ask me that in that same uncivil tone?”
“Maybe it’s because you don’t know when you ain’t welcome.”
“Seldom am I welcome.” He raised his arm and leaned on the archway. His eyes roved insolently over her. “And so,
Mistress Walcote
.” He relaxed against the carved stone. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About that cloth. You never finished telling me.”
She eyed his casual posture with a frown. “I recall you did not want to have anything to do with it. You refused my coins.”
“Perhaps I was rash.”
Her frown deepened. She slapped his arm leaning against the arch. He stumbled before straightening. “That’s better. When you speak to me in this house, you will conduct yourself with more respect.”
“In this house? The house you used to clean, you mean?”
If it were possible for a human to expel flames, Philippa would have done so. Though she did not speak, her lips seemed to form the word “Adam!”
After a pause she said tightly, “I do not care for your manners, Master Crispin.”
“I’m not particularly impressed by yours.” He straightened his coat and slipped his thumbs into his belt.
She darted a glance at Jack who remained mute and wide-eyed.
“So,” she said, “you know who I am. Or rather, who I was.”
“It is difficult to disguise that inflection. But you perform it well. You are like a mummer playing a part.”
She turned her wedding ring on her finger. “Aye. It is a useful skill.”
“So we need play no more games, Philippa.”
She raised her chin. “So now you think you may call me by my Christian name?”
Her accent thickened the more he jibed her. “It’s not so much the chambermaid, but the adulteress.”
She stepped back to gaze at him, or perhaps to get a better swing. Her hand struck his cheek with such force that he teetered. He raised his hand to the welt and smiled. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
Her small lips curved. “Now we understand each other.”
Crispin continued to rub his cheek. “You have a strong hand, Madam.”
“I’m no weakling. I worked hard in this house. I carried water. I did the heavy cleaning. I did more than my share. It was natural that I should catch the master’s eye, though I never dreamed it would go so far.”
For the first time he noticed a servant in the far corner of the hall pretending to sweep a small square of the floor with a gorse broom. Crispin lowered his voice. “Shall we retire to the parlor?”
She folded her arms over her breasts. “Why? I have no wish to talk with you. You made it clear you would have nought to do with me.”
“This is a murder inquiry. If you’d rather speak to the sheriff…”
The sparkle in her eye dimmed. Glancing at the servant, Philippa nodded and led Crispin and Jack down a gallery to a warm chamber. She sat in the one large, ornate chair and gestured for Crispin to sit in the smaller one beside it.
Jack stood behind Crispin’s chair and wrung the hem of his tunic.
“Can your servant serve the wine?”
Crispin swiveled his gaze toward Jack. Amusement had not left his features since Philippa doled out her slap. “
Can
you serve wine, Jack?”
“Course I can!” Jack’s lower lip jutted forward and he narrowed his eyes at Philippa. He searched the room for the wine jug, and when he spied it, he stomped to the sideboard and sloppily poured two bowls. He eyed the silver before he offered a bowl to Crispin first. Crispin shook his head and nodded to the lady. Grumbling, Jack gave her the first bowl and Crispin the second. He retreated to the jug, no doubt wondering how he’d get himself a drink or slip the silver flagon under his cloak.
Philippa drank and studied Crispin over the rim of her bowl.
“So, you caught the master’s eye,” said Crispin.
She nodded. “A body only hears about such in songs. But I caught his fancy, and before I knew it, I was mistress of this household.”
“Did you love him?”
The wine bowl paused at her lips. “A strange question. What does it matter?”
Crispin shrugged. “It doesn’t. I merely wondered.”
“And I wonder why you wonder.”
“You forget.” He lowered his chin and ran his finger absently along the rim of the silver bowl. “I saw you at the Thistle.”
She angled her head to stare into the fire. A wisp of hair escaped from her meticulous coif and posed along her neck in a sinuous wave. “There is so much you’ll never understand.”
“Try me.”
“We must talk about the cloth.”
“Did Adam Becton hire you?”
She added a drowsy smile to her features and settled her head against the chair’s high back. “Very well. Aye, Adam did hire me. What of it?”
“He does not seem to approve of your current status.”
“Neither do you.”
“We weren’t talking about me.”
“Weren’t we?” Her smile brightened enough to cause a frown on Crispin’s lips. “No matter. No, he never approved of Nicholas and me. The fool’s in love with me.”
“That much I reckoned for myself. What I am uncertain of is how
much
he loves you.”
She laughed this time. “You think Adam killed Nicholas?”
“It is not beyond the realm of possibility.”
“You don’t know Adam.”
“And you, apparently, do not know what a man is capable of doing for love.”
She drank her wine and set the bowl aside. “Can’t we discuss the cloth?”
“Life as mistress of this house must have been difficult after being raised from a chambermaid.”
Her lids stayed in their languid pose while regarding him. “It was difficult. No one ever gave me a moment’s peace.”
“The servants?”
“The servants, the vendors, everyone. Until one day I told them all. I
am
mistress here, and if they didn’t like it they could shift for themselves. Nicholas did not care if I bought beef from another butcher or corn from a different merchant. He laughed at it. I think he enjoyed raising me to his place. He was not afraid to be unconventional.”
“And you rose to the occasion?”
“Oh, aye. I learned to enjoy it, too. Any servant who sneered at me got cuffed right well or dismissed. That’s the way in this house.”
“And even though your lord and master is dead?”
Her sensuous lips firmed to a tight line. “Aye, it will remain the same. After three years of wedded life, I have learned this business well.”
“Do you read, then?”
“Only a little. I do sums, too. Nicholas taught me. But I will learn more.”
He smiled into his wine bowl and sipped. He was beginning to like this Philippa Walcote in spite of her morals.
“Enough,” she snorted. “The cloth. We must speak of that.”
“Yes, and of fees.”
She smiled. “So you will take my money now?”
“I am a sensible man.”
She rose and reached into the delicate pouch at her embroidered belt. “Sixpence, did you say?”
“A day.”
“Aye. Here, take a week’s worth, then.”
She held out a small pouch too far away for Crispin to reach while sitting. He rose and looked her in the eye. Amusement played on her face, but money never amused him. He finally raised his hand to receive it, and without taking his eyes from hers, he lowered the pouch into his own purse and sat.
“Tell me about this damned cloth.”
“The Mandyllon.” She said the word and sobered. Sitting rigidly, she curled her free hand into a fist. “It is a veronica—”
“Yes, you said all that. What is this ‘curse’ you’re so afraid of?”
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “When in its presence, a person is absolutely incapable of telling a lie. It forces the truth out of you.”
Crispin laughed. He set down his bowl before he spilled it. “And that is your curse? Yes, for women it must be so.”
“You think it amusing?” she said flatly. “Think of this: What if you were bartering with a wealthy client and must speak the truth? What if you were with your enemy? Your spouse? Or a woman you found appealing?”
Crispin’s laughter died.
“Still amusing, is it?”
“You mean to say, you must tell the absolute truth? What you’re thinking? What you are…feeling?”