“I do. About a week before you and I arrived, I heard through the other servants that Master Jerome Woodville went missing. It was New Year’s Eve.” Emlyn’s brow wrinkled. “Do you not remember me telling you? Most thought he had left in the middle of the night, abandoned his duties to the palace.”
“Well, Florian plainly thought there was more to the matter.” Gwynnie frowned as she recalled Florian’s exact words. “He asked, ‘Was that an admission?’”
“An admission of what?”
“Either an admission that Master Woodville was his lover, or that he was responsible for Woodville’s disappearance.”
Emlyn dropped the sheet back into the barrel and stared hard at Gwynnie.
“Florian thought that Fitzroy had killed Woodville.”
“Exactly,” Gwynnie murmured. “And when Renard arrived, he said something about it being the same as before; how Fitzroy had done it before with…” Slowly, she lifted her eyes to stare at Emlyn. “With his bare hands.”
“By this light!” Emlyn gasped.
“We need to ask about Master Woodville. If we can find out what happened to him, then perhaps we can point Tombstone and Master Pascal toward the truth. It is worth a try, is it not, Ma?”
Emlyn turned away. She busied herself pulling out more dirty chemises, which she plunged into another barrel of lye and water.
“Ma?” Gwynnie followed her, stopping on the other side of the barrel. “What was it you once said to me about vengeance? How someone has to take it into their own hands?”
“This is different.”
“How is this different?”
“We did not know Florian. Nor did we know Master Woodville. Let another take their vengeance and let us save our own necks.” She flapped one of the chemises in the air, nearly catching Gwynnie with it.
“And what would you have thought if someone had the chance to catch my father’s killer, and they did nothing about it?”
There was a sudden silence between them. Emlyn stared down into the water; her lips pursed. Gwynnie held her breath, fearing she had taken it too far.
“No more,” Emlyn whispered, her words barely audible. “No more, Gwynnie, I beg you.”
“We need to do something, Ma.”
Before they could discuss the matter anymore, the door opened, and another maid bustled into the room carrying a trug of laundry. She was much older, her face as wrinkled as the creased sheets being washed.
“I hope you two aren’t shirking,” she said with a thick northern accent. Then she grinned. “Been impressed with you two since you arrived. Won’t have that changing, I hope.”
“No, Sarah.” Gwynnie forced a smile.
“I always make sure my daughter works hard,” Emlyn said with a wink.
“Ah, you take good care of her.” Sarah dropped her trug. This one was full of men’s shirts, and she wrinkled her nose as she pulled them out, one at a time. “I bet you take good care of your mother too, don’t you, Gwynnie? Can’t say I blame you with all these strange tidings.”
Gwynnie moved to help her with the shirts.
“Ma was telling me that the thefts and poor Master Battersby’s death are not the first ill things to happen as of late.” She lifted a jug of water and stared pouring it out into a third barrel, into which Sarah dropped some of the shirts. “I hear a gentleman also went missing.”
“Master Woodville? Oh aye, you’re right about that. Bad business, if you ask me.” Sarah shuddered.
“How do you mean?” Gwynnie asked.
“I mean that Master Woodville was one of the lower gentries of the palace, well liked, and because of it, he seemed to have access everywhere. Aye, nice lad. Always had a kind word to say to us servants. Not like some of the high and mighty you get in these corridors.” Sarah wrinkled her nose, but it was no longer because of the foul scent. “He was younger than you, lass. Scarcely more than a boy.” She sighed heavily. “He was last seen at New Year.”
“I heard he left the palace and ran away to make his own life,” Emlyn said calmly from across the room as she started to wring out some of the sodden sheets.
“You can think that, if you like.” Sarah dumped the last of the shirts into the barrel.
“What do you think happened?” Gwynnie asked, adding a lye mixture from a small brown jug into the water.
“I think that Master Woodville was happy here,” Sarah said softly. “He never had a desire to go anywhere, so why would he leave? And then there’s the fact he didn’t take anything with him.” She halted her movements and looked straight at Gwynnie. “A man who runs away takes a coffer and a few things. Nothing was taken from Master Woodville’s chamber. Not even a spare shirt.” She thrust her hand into the barrel and worked the shirts together with the lye. “If you ask me, something happened that night. He wouldn’t be the first lad to drink himself into a stupor or to end up in a fight from all that liquor. Poor boy probably ended up in a ditch or tripped into the Thames, too drunk to pull himself out.”
Gwynnie gulped, watching the pain on Sarah’s face.
“Poor boy,” she murmured again. “Nothing good comes from these wet winters. One man disappeared, another dead, and now all these robberies? Nah, the rain is an omen if you ask me.”
“What sort of omen?”
“Of bad tidings.” Sarah nodded. “I’m not the only one who thinks it. Ravens have been seen over the river. And, on Yuletide Day, two great fish the size of carts washed up on the shore of the Thames. Bad times are to come. Last time such omens came to the palace, we lost a queen.” She looked at Gwynnie. “Queen Catherine was sent from this palace. Now, poor Queen Catherine is dead. The king wears yellow to celebrate and there are tales that when Queen Catherine’s heart was cut from her chest, it was found to be as black as night. You want my thoughts? I think Queen Anne should be watching where she treads.”
Gwynnie said nothing but glanced across at her mother. Emlyn was strangely quiet, staring into a barrel of water and chemises. Gwynnie crossed the room to her mother, so Sarah could not hear her.
“We have to do something,” Gwynnie whispered. “For Master Woodville’s sake.”
“Then do something.” Emlyn nodded. “But be careful what path you choose, miting.”
“What do you think?” Gwynnie held up the letter. Her handwriting was shaky, the words barely legible.
