She turned to leave, passing the two gossiping ladies who were still talking of ill omens. Every time a hare had crossed their path, or a dog had howled at the moon, they had seen it as an omen of death, of the child’s passing. When Gwynnie reached the main door at the bottom of the stairs, she heard voices beyond, outside in the main courtyard. She hesitated before peering around the wood.
“It is a simple question, Renard.” It was Tombstone. “I wish to see inside your pockets.”
“How dare you?” Renard raged, his French accent even stronger than before. “I am in the employment of the Duke of Richmond, the son of the king, and yet you speak to me as if I am a common urchin, a street pickpocket.”
“I do not remember calling you anything of the kind.” Tombstone remained calm.
The pair stood in the middle of the inner courtyard, before the vast fountain that was beginning to freeze over.
“I simply asked to see inside your pockets. Your reluctance makes me believe you have something to hide.”
This was too much for Renard. He dropped his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. It landed in an icy puddle, scattering droplets over Tombstone’s boots.
“Search it yourself,” Renard ordered and then reached for his overgown, showing it had no pockets, just as his doublet did not.
Tombstone took the cloak and searched it, feeling for a pocket.
Gwynnie watched, holding her breath, desperate for the jewels to be found.
“Please, please,” she whispered. The wind whistled through the courtyard, and time seemed to slow down as she waited for something to happen.
Tombstone reached a hand into a pocket and turned it inside out. There was nothing but empty cloth, no jewels, no scrap of linen, nothing.
“God have mercy,” Gwynnie muttered, leaning against the door.
“Now that is done, may I have my cloak back? I will need to send it to be cleaned.” Renard snatched the cloak from Tombstone’s grasp and glowered, as if he was the one to blame for it being dropped in a dirty puddle. “I see I will have to tell my master what a dismal job the lawyers here do, searching men such as myself.”
“Every man is under suspicion,” Tombstone replied through gritted teeth. “Surely you can appreciate that, Renard.”
“I’d suggest you’re looking for a madman, not a courtier or gentleman.” Renard stepped toward Tombstone and spat the words.
“Who says they are not one and the same thing?” Tombstone’s question made Gwynnie smile.
“You shall be made to apologise for this, you knave.” Renard turned and marched away, his boots splashing in the puddles.
The insult hung in the air. Tombstone was stony-faced, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a second, Gwynnie thought he was going to strike out at Renard, but he made no move to follow.
Slowly, Gwynnie stepped out from her hiding place by the door. Tombstone turned to her and crooked a finger, silently ordering her to follow him. They walked across the courtyard to another lane, where she stood with her hands folded in front of her.
“You made me appear a fool.”
“A fool?” Gwynnie repeated. “I simply told you what I saw. It is hardly a wonder if he has moved the jewels when a night has passed since I told you.”
Tombstone grunted and thrust his hands into his hair. “Are you certain of what you saw?” His voice was sharp.
“Why are you so angry with me, when you hold your temper for everyone else?”
“Perhaps I am beginning to realise how troublesome it can be to pay a maid to listen from the shadows,” he muttered darkly. “If Renard reports me to Fitzroy, then what I have done today will be in the ear of the king by tonight. By tomorrow, my coffers could be packed, and I’ll be turned out of the palace.”
“They cannot send you anywhere with this flood, remember?” Gwynnie said tartly. “It is why you are so certain the killer is still here, in the palace.”
“I do not remember telling you that.”
Gwynnie could have kicked herself for revealing what she had overheard in Pascal’s office.
Tombstone’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. Gwynnie was reminded of the buzzards she used to watch hunting mice in the street of her first home. Tombstone had the same copperish tinge to his hair, and the same fixed glare. “How much do you listen in on things you should not hear?”
“Not much.”
“Yet you have plainly heard enough of my conversations, hmm?” He sighed. “If you are not useful to me, I cannot rely on you, Gwynnie. I will not pay you for giving me nothing.”
“I gave you something.” She stood taller, refusing to back down. “It is your fault if you did not act on my information quickly enough for it to be useful. As for what I hear, I hear plenty. I hear the queen mumbling about Jane Seymour, and her fears over losing her throne. I hear men guessing who the next king will be if King Henry cannot rise from his bed again. And I hear Fitzroy ordering his man to search for these thieves himself.”
“What did you say?” Tombstone whipped around on the spot. “Why would Fitzroy ask Renard to investigate himself?”
“Is that not for you to discover?” In her anger, she had given far too much away, and Tombstone was giving her that same buzzard-like stare. She quickly curtsied, remembering she was a maid and he was a lawyer, and retreated down the lane.
“Gwynnie!” he called after her, but she had no desire to continue their conversation. If he disliked her so much for simply making him search Renard, then perhaps he never would believe the killer was Fitzroy.
Gwynnie kept walking, lost in her thoughts, until she reached the corridor outside her own chamber. She tapped on the door — two quick knocks, followed by three light ones — and the door opened immediately. Gwynnie stepped over the threshold.
“Oh…” She gasped in horror as she peered around her mother into their room. “That conniving bastard!”
CHAPTER 17
“Gwynnie, curb your tongue.”
“Ma!” Gwynnie stepped into the room to look around the small space. On every surface, something glittered. The jewels she had planted on Renard were now back in their chamber. There was a gold pendant on Gwynnie’s pillow, with a rich blue stone in the middle of an ornate cross, and pearls at either end of the struts. A hat pin had been stuck directly into the pillow, the ruby gleaming in the sunlight that shone through the window. The gold filigree around the ruby was shaped into a fleur-de-lis. Other jewels were laid out on the windowsill, where the tallow candle stood. “Would you look at what he has done?”