“Then you have given me my first clue.” He cocked his head to the side. “The man following you, the man who caused that cut, was a wealthy man, was he not? He had to be, for you to fear your word would not be believed against his.”
Gwynnie lowered the cotton ball from her chin, letting it rest between her fingers. Tombstone was too perceptive. Even when she was trying to distract him, to evade his questions, he noticed every detail.
“Gwynnie, who did this?”
“It does not matter.”
“How can you say that when you are bleeding?”
“It’s my blood, not yours. Leave it to me.”
“Damn that curt tongue of yours.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“I beg your pardon?” His words were sharp, and she looked up. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, I —”
A sudden knock at the door made them both jump in their seats.
“Master Tombstone? I must speak to you. I must speak to you at once.”
CHAPTER 12
Tombstone held up a finger. It was a silent order to Gwynnie not to say a word.
“Can I —”
He raised his finger higher, and she capitulated, deciding she would say something sharp as soon as his visitor was gone.
“Tombstone!” The voice was louder as knuckles rapped on the door.
Tombstone moved to his feet and walked to the door, opening it so quickly that the woman on the other side practically fell into the chamber. Gwynnie stared, open-mouthed, as she saw the lady’s face.
It was Goodwife Esme Battersby, Florian’s wife. Flustered, her face red and her cheeks tearstained, she waved a handkerchief in the air as she stepped toward Tombstone.
“Have you discovered who did it yet?” the new widow asked without preamble.
“Please —” Tombstone began, but he didn’t get to finish.
“Oh!” she wailed. “I know what that means. You need say no more. You have not found him. You do not know who the murderer is.”
“These things take time,” Tombstone offered, his voice soft.
“Someone has murdered my husband.” Goodwife Battersby raised her hands to her face. Her fingers distractedly scratched her cheek, though Gwynnie wasn’t sure if this was an attempt to stop the tears or some habitual movement. “Yet you sit here in your chamber, and … and…” Her eyes darted to Gwynnie and the blood-stained cotton. “You must know something by now,” the lady said with desperation, looking back at Tombstone. “Anything?”
“When I do know something, I shall tell you.” Tombstone stepped forward and took Goodwife Battersby’s hand before she could dart away. Gwynnie was reminded of a bee, dancing from place to place, unable to settle. “Believe me in this. I shall not stop searching for your husband’s killer. I vow to you; I will discover the truth of what has happened.”
“You vow it?” Goodwife Battersby’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “To God? You vow it?” Then her expression darkened. “To a Catholic God or to the new religion?”
A strange silence descended on the room.
“This is not the time for religious debate.” Tombstone let go of her hand.
Around Goodwife Battersby’s neck, Gwynnie spied the beads of a rosary. She was clearly of the old religion and sat on the Catholic side of the debate that currently raged through Greenwich Palace. Where Queen Anne’s influence had once seemed strong, with one Protestant reform following hotly on the heels of another, things were changing again. This year, King Henry had insisted on hearing Mass at Christmas. It had brewed debates long thought to have been silenced.
“I will keep my vow,” Tombstone said, his voice firm. “Now, go and rest. I shall report to you when I know more.”
She nodded. “Th-thank you,” she stammered, and then she was gone, her gown whipping around the edge of the doorframe as she disappeared down the corridor. Her heels clicked on the stone floor, echoing as she walked away.
Tombstone slowly closed the door behind the widow and leaned on the wood. He sighed deeply and then returned to his chair behind the desk.
“You have a strong sense of justice,” Gwynnie whispered as she looked at him.
“Deaths will be answered, murder will be avenged,” he muttered darkly. “I will not have it any other way. All that has happened in this palace — it makes no sense.” He drew forward a sheaf of parchment from the desk. “The murder, the disappearance…”
“The disappearance? Of Master Jerome Woodville?” Gwynnie sat forward. “You are investigating that as well?”
“Of course.” He frowned at her. “Did you think no one was paying attention?”
“The staff … the whispers…”
“Ah, you are listening to gossip?”
“Well, what other way is there to learn of news? People say that he fell drunk into the river,” she said hurriedly, “after he was seen drinking with the king’s son on New Year’s Eve.”
“Wait, what did you say?” Tombstone jerked forward. He slid parchments together, pulling up another sheaf in which some notes had been written in such hasty scribble, they were barely legible at all. “Master Woodville spent New Year’s Eve in the great hall in his own company, barely talking to another. He returned to his chamber alone at the end of the night.”
