“She was.” Gwynnie nodded. “I was hiding in Fitzroy’s garderobe when he and a visitor came in.”
“Renard?”
“No.” Gwynnie shook her head. “Florian Battersby.”
Tombstone sat down suddenly. He gestured for her to go on, his expression unreadable.
“Florian tried to blackmail Fitzroy. He challenged him regarding his relationship with Master Woodville.”
Tombstone lowered his hand onto the arm of the chair, seeming shocked but not outraged.
Gwynnie halted, remembering how she had seen Tombstone’s head turned at the joust. Not for the first time did she wonder if Tombstone and Fitzroy shared something in common.
“Florian threatened to tell the king of his son’s nature. He said it was no scandal in the theatre, even in the streets of London. But the son of a king?”
“The son of a king like Henry,” Emlyn added.
“Fitzroy was desperate. He started crying, stamping around the room, not knowing what to do with himself.”
“All this time, you were hidden in the garderobe?” Tombstone asked.
Gwynnie nodded. “I thought of climbing out of the window, but then the accusation changed. Florian accused Fitzroy of being behind Master Woodville’s disappearance…”
Tombstone was as still as his name suggested he should be — not a twitch, not a blink.
“The tumult built.” Gwynnie took a shuddery breath. “Then Fitzroy put his hands around Florian’s throat and strangled him to death. And I … I did nothing to stop it.”
Emlyn nudged Gwynnie in the back, prompting her to go on.
“Afterward, Fitzroy was muttering ‘not again’, and he was quite mad. He left the chamber, and I went to check on Florian, but…” She paused, not wishing to say the words. “Fitzroy came back with Renard, and I hid in the garderobe once more. Renard said it was like before…”
“You mean he … he had killed before?” Tombstone’s voice was strangely quiet.
“The intimation was that he had strangled Master Woodville, too.”
Tombstone took a deep breath. “What happened next?”
“They heard me. I left through the window, and they chased after me, terrified of what I had seen. Ever since, Renard has been watching me, threatening me. He urged Fitzroy to keep me alive the night that Mistress Battersby found me in the tiltyard. He wanted to frame me for Florian’s murder, so suspicion would not fall on Fitzroy.”
Tombstone stood abruptly. He marched across the room and threw a log onto the fire, lighting it with a tinderbox and stoking the flames with the poker. He sat down on the hearth, his temple in the palm of one hand. He didn’t say anything for some minutes.
“You are sure of what he said?” Tombstone asked, lowering his hand. “Regarding Jerome?”
Gwynnie moved off the desk, noting that Tombstone had referred to Woodville by his Christian name. “How well did you know Master Woodville?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he looked down at the scorched hearth rug beneath his feet. Gwynnie, however, had a good idea of what might have taken place. She crossed the room toward Tombstone and sat beside him, on the other side of the hearth.
“You knew him well?”
“For a time.” Tombstone wouldn’t look at her. “We were good … friends.”
“In the manner that Fitzroy was so keen to keep hidden regarding his own relationship with Woodville?” At her words, he looked at her keenly. “I would not disapprove of such a thing,” she whispered. “I had noticed at the tiltyard that your head was turned by another man.”
Tombstone grimaced and looked away, shaking his head as if angry at himself.
“You are certain? Absolutely certain of what you heard? What you saw?”
“I am.” Gwynnie noticed that he hadn’t questioned her confession about being in Fitzroy’s rooms. Clearly, he was prepared to believe that they were the Shadow Cutpurses. “When you inspected his body, you saw that Florian had walked on glass. A glass was broken in Fitzroy’s room. When Fitzroy attacked him, he trampled that glass into his boots. You also said the wound wasn’t right, that he may have had his throat cut after he died. I think Renard moved the body then cut his throat to cover up the bruises.”
Tombstone nodded and sniffed, the only sign that he was fighting back tears.
Gwynnie nudged closer to Tombstone. “I am sorry. I didn’t know you and Master Woodville were so close.”
“No one did. It was only for a short time, last year,” Tombstone said quietly. “A few months, then we parted ways. I did not realise he and Fitzroy…” He trailed off, waving his hand in the air.
“What sort of man was he?”
“Gentle.” Tombstone sat taller. “Softly spoken, easily led. I remember seeing him in Fitzroy’s company once.” He grimaced. “He seemed brasher than before, more outspoken than I had ever seen him. He was Irish by birth. He had the most distinctive voice.”
“Irish?” Gwynnie hadn’t heard this before. “He had Celtic roots?”
“That he did.”
“Did he…” Gwynnie sat forward, gesturing to her chest. “Did he wear a brooch?”
“What?” Tombstone flicked his head around.
“Did he wear a brooch? One with a Celtic knot inlaid in silver?” Suddenly things made sense. She understood why the brooch did not look as if it belonged in Fitzroy’s collection. She understood why it was hidden in the lid of that box. She understood too why Florian Battersby had drawn it in his notes when he was looking into Woodville’s disappearance.
