“Well, whoever told you that was wrong.” Gwynnie shook her head. “Samuel, one of the cooks, saw him in the great hall, drinking with Fitzroy. Old Rudyard saw the pair of them hooting at the moon like owls on the docks over the Thames after the feast had finished.”
Tombstone blinked a few times before taking a quill from his drawer, along with blotting paper and ink. He added to his notes, his eyes repeatedly darting up to look at her.
“You keep your ears open? You hear things?”
“I try to,” she murmured. “It’s amazing what you can hear below stairs, if you only have the willingness to listen. I imagine men in your position do not have cause to go down to the kitchens very much. Why would you? You get served in great halls and fancy chambers instead.”
His quill stilled over the parchment as he glanced at her, before he returned to his notes.
“You hear things of note? Things it would be worth me hearing?”
“Occasionally,” she said softly, sensing an opportunity.
“Would you like to listen — for a price?” His quill stilled again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, would you be willing to keep your ears open and report to me on what you hear?”
“You mean if it relates to Master Florian Battersby?”
“To Battersby, or to Woodville.” As Tombstone said Woodville’s name, he looked down and busied himself scribbling notes again. “Anything that could be useful.”
“Did you know Woodville?”
“We were both at the palace from time to time. I knew him a little, though not much.” Tombstone avoided looking her in the eye, and Gwynnie couldn’t help thinking there was more to it, an answer that Tombstone was not willing to give. “Here is what I will pay you each week to listen out for me.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a leather drawstring pouch. Untying the string, he took out two coins and dropped them onto the table.
Gwynnie reached for the coins, but before her fingers could close over them, Tombstone covered them with his own hand and slid them back toward himself.
“Well?” he asked. “Do we have an agreement?”
The coins weren’t much, but they were enough that she and her mother would be comfortable. It was certainly more than they would ever get paid working as maids, though far less than the value of the jewels that were currently hidden in their chamber.
Suddenly another possibility opened itself up to Gwynnie. By agreeing to be Tombstone’s mole in the staff, she could not only pass information on to him, but also steer him in the direction of Fitzroy.
“Very well.” Gwynnie moved to her feet as Tombstone laid down his quill. “We have an agreement.”
“You agreed to do what?” Emlyn shut the door of their chamber fiercely. The flame from one lonely tallow candle on the windowsill flickered with the sudden movement, making the shadows dance across the wall.
“I agreed to listen out for things. To report back if I heard anything that could be of use to his investigation.” Gwynnie sat down on the bed and stretched out her sore back.
“What a clever decision that was!” Emlyn cried. “You think this wise? You think you can help Master Battersby now?” She moved to stand over Gwynnie. “No one can help him. He’s dead. Soon enough, he’ll be buried. What good can you do him?”
“Is that what you’d say to his wife?” Gwynnie asked softly. “Strange, I do not remember you saying such things about my father after he was —”
“Enough!” Emlyn interrupted. She couldn’t bear to hear the word ‘murdered’. “Gwynnie?” Emlyn sat on the side of the bed. “You have not helped yourself. If Renard or Fitzroy realise that someone is informing Tombstone that they are involved, what do you think they will do next?”
“I have to do something,” Gwynnie said firmly, rolling over on the bed to face away from her mother.
Emlyn took her shoulder and pulled her back around. “What happened to your face?” She took Gwynnie’s cheek, tilting her face to look at her chin. “Gwynnie? Who did this to you?”
Gwynnie pushed her mother off and scrambled to stand from the bed. “Who do you think did it?” she asked tartly. “Some angel?”
“Gwynnie!”
“Renard followed me today.” Gwynnie told her mother about how Renard had cornered her on the docks and demanded to know where the jewels were, before pulling out the knife.
By the time she had finished her story and explained how she had ended up in Tombstone’s chamber, Emlyn was sitting very still on her own bed, her face half hidden in shadow.
“You could end up dead, Gwynnie.” The words were softly spoken. “Renard is getting increasingly dangerous. What manner of weapon do you think he will pull next?” She slowly stood from the bed and walked toward Gwynnie. She reached out. Gwynnie tried to avoid her mother’s grasp, but Emlyn was too quick and took her cheek once more, tilting it up so she could examine the wound. “Not yet, though,” she murmured. “You’ll not die yet.”
“Ma? You’re talking in riddles.”
“He asked you where the jewels were. He didn’t ask what you had seen. Do you not see what this means, Gwynnie?”
Gwynnie tore her face away from her mother and moved to the candle on the windowsill. As she watched the flame quiver, dancing back and forth in the wind that crept in through the frame, something shifted into focus in her mind.
“He wants the jewels,” Gwynnie muttered. She slowly turned to face her mother. “Everyone thinks the Shadow Cutpurses killed Florian as well as stealing the jewels.” Emlyn nodded, urging her on. “So, he hopes to confirm all the rumours are correct, does he not? He hopes to find the jewels and use them to frame us — me — for the murder.”
“Precisely, Gwynnie,” Emlyn said. “Once he has the jewels, he will plant them in such a place — on your person or in this chamber — that they can be found all too easily. Then he will stand back and watch the law take its course. He doesn’t need to silence you with his own hands, Gwynnie, or he would have done so today with that blade as you stood before the Thames. How easy would it have been for him to slit your throat and push you into the river?”
“Ma!”
“It is true. It would have been easy for him, yet you are more valuable to him alive than dead. You are the scapegoat for his master. If they can blame you for the murder, then all of Fitzroy’s fears will fade to nothing.” Emlyn sank down onto her bed. “If he gets those jewels, he’ll have you in Newgate by the end of the week, and on the gallows by next Saturday.”
CHAPTER 13
“Will you stop grinding your teeth so?” Gwynnie muttered as she reached for the stones beneath the window and pulled hard, trying to dislodge them from their hiding place. “It is a good plan, and you know it. You just do not like to admit it.”
