“Most men would run for the hills,” Tombstone muttered quietly.
Pascal nodded. “No man wishes to hear such tidings, do they?” His voice softened, and he took Tombstone’s shoulder, clasping it tightly.
There was something affectionate in the touch. Gwynnie again wondered at their relationship, if there was more to it than simply that of an employer and employee.
Tombstone nodded at the older man. “We must continue as before,” he said.
“Yes, yes, we must.” Pascal inhaled and stood tall. “There is no other way. What was it you were saying about the joust yesterday? Something about that man who works for Fitzroy?”
“Renard? One of the maids mentioned seeing him with some jewels. I intended to ask him about it, but before I could reach him, the king fell from his horse and pandemonium broke out.” Tombstone sighed and ran a hand over his face.
As Gwynnie watched, Tombstone suddenly looked in her direction. He stilled so abruptly that she whipped her head back around the corner. Had he seen her? Had he caught her watching the pair of them?
“I see,” said Pascal. “Well, I must go to Cromwell, though I daresay he will not be pleased with us.”
“He’ll have other things on his mind rather than who killed Florian Battersby now.” Tombstone’s manner sounded stiff. “He’ll be plotting who will sit next on the throne should the king have further complications.”
“You should not speak so. What have I told you?” Pascal admonished him. “Do you want to find yourself in Newgate, Elric?”
“We can discuss this another time.”
“That is what you always say, foolish boy.” Pascal sighed. “I must go. Report to me later.”
As his footsteps retreated down the lane, Gwynnie leant back against the wall with a sigh of relief. She had not been discovered eavesdropping. But then another set of footsteps sounded, and they were moving toward her. Tombstone appeared, angling his head around the corner, his eyes narrowed.
“Is this how you learn so much about people? You listen around corners?”
“Sometimes.” She stood straight and adjusted the tray in her grasp. “Who is Pascal to you?” Her question came so suddenly that his eyebrows shot up.
“My employer.”
“He does not speak to you as if you are merely a lawyer under his care. You must have known him for some years.”
“I do not remember agreeing to pay you to look into my life. I asked you to listen to other people.”
“That you did.”
“And have you discovered anything more? Or do you listen in on my private conversations for your own pleasure?” Clearly, he didn’t expect her to answer. His eyes darted down to the doucet tray. “Who is this for?”
“The queen. She still has no appetite, so I have been asked to carry this to her chambers.”
Tombstone nodded and stepped back, waving her on her way.
“Wait, a minute more.” Gwynnie shifted her weight between her feet, her hands fidgeting with the tray. “You said you had not managed to speak to Renard.”
“You truly did hear much of our conversation.” Tombstone adjusted his cloak, pulling it tightly across his body.
“Will you speak to him?” She tried not to sound too desperate.
A whole day had passed since she had informed on Renard; plenty of time for him to have discovered the jewels in his pocket and hidden them elsewhere. Yet she had to try, for there was still a chance it could point Tombstone in the right direction.
“I am going to see him now.” Tombstone frowned as he turned away. “You seem most eager.”
“I wish to help.” She followed him down the lane. “And I remember what you said yesterday, about how the killer may strike again…” She swallowed around a lump in her throat. An image flashed into her mind of a body laid out in the courtyard, its throat cut. However, it wasn’t Florian Battersby this time, but herself.
“You never know with these things,” Tombstone said. “Hasten to your tasks, Gwynnie, and leave me to mine.” He walked back down the lane and turned out of sight.
Gwynnie hesitated, tempted to follow him until he found Renard, but what good would that do? It would only make both Tombstone and Renard more suspicious of her.
Instead, she carried the tray to the Donsen Tower. Climbing the steps, it was immediately clear that the queen’s quarters were a little calmer today. The two ladies she had seen commiserating together on the stairs the day before now stood in front of the window, bemoaning the rain.
“It is an omen,” the lady that had been crying said to the other. “All this rain. Was it not predicted by the astronomer at Yuletide? He said dark times were ahead.”
“Dark times are always ahead,” Gwynnie muttered to herself as she walked past, rather glad the two ladies didn’t hear her. She had seen such tricksters all the time in the streets of London. They’d vow to read a man’s palm or the stars in exchange for money, then reveal what was in their future. Invariably, dark times were coming. It was a mysterious enough phrase that it could be interpreted in any number of ways, so when the punter lost a dear friend or merely tripped into a ditch the next day, they believed the star-reader and came back to pay again.
“They said a dead whale washed up on the shores of the Thames,” the lady continued. “Oh! What an omen it is.”
Gwynnie reached the door to Queen Anne’s chambers and knocked lightly.
The elder lady-in-waiting who had taken charge the day before opened the door and looked down at the doucets in Gwynnie’s hands.
“To tempt the queen,” Gwynnie explained, hopefully.
“Very well.” She smiled, rather sadly. “Though I fear nothing will tempt her.” She took the tray and stepped back. As she did so, Gwynnie caught a glimpse through the antechamber to the private bedchamber beyond.
Queen Anne sat at the foot of the bed, draped in lace and fine cloth. She looked pale and gaunt, her dark eyes hooded. She said nothing, even as the ladies around her attempted to draw her into conversation.
Then the lady-in-waiting closed the door and Gwynnie could see the queen no more.