Gwynnie bit her lip. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known this man. Finding him here felt wrong indeed. He should have been buried in consecrated ground, by family and those who loved him. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes shut, and he had started to decay. Gwynnie did her best not to look at the single maggot she saw working its way across the base of the man’s jaw.
A heavy sniff broke the silence and Tombstone’s shoulders shuddered.
Gwynnie stepped forward. She sat down beside Tombstone and startled herself by laying a hand on his shoulder.
He kept his face turned down, refusing to look at her. The strangled cry he was clearly trying to smother came out more as a grunt. “I never thought it would come to this, not when I heard he had disappeared.”
Gwynnie looked down at the grave, wondering if his fate had been inevitable. It seemed that Jerome Woodville had made a habit of blackmailing men to keep their secret. One day, he had gone too far and tried to blackmail one of the most powerful men in the country, a man who was as used to power as she was used to being ignored in the streets by those that walked by. It was almost little wonder that Fitzroy would sooner be a murderer than pay Jerome.
“Fitzroy has killed more than once now,” Gwynnie whispered.
“We need to be certain,” Tombstone said, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his doublet. “We can link Renard to the body, for he was seen. But not Fitzroy.”
Gwynnie released Tombstone and lowered herself into the grave. She pulled at the cloth.
“Don’t, Gwynnie,” Emlyn urged. “Let the dead rest in peace.”
“I am sorry,” Gwynnie whispered, then pulled the cloth back from his neck.
Despite the fact that weeks had passed since his death, and the body was beginning to decay, the bruising around the pale neck was still visible.
“It is the same,” she murmured quietly. “Fitzroy strangled him. It is how Florian looked, before Renard slit his throat.”
She sat back on her haunches, allowing both Emlyn and Tombstone to see what she had found.
The stench was awful. Gwynnie raised her arm and breathed into the sleeve of the lawyer’s robes, preferring the scent of starch and lye to the dank fetor of death.
“I can see the truth.” Tombstone said, all signs of his tears now gone. “I can see it plainly before me.” He waved a hand at the body. “But do we persuade the king? He will not want to believe his son capable of this. Not without proof. We need someone to say they have seen Fitzroy.”
“You have me,” Gwynnie reminded him. “I saw Fitzroy murder Battersby.”
“And you are a maid.” His deep voice silenced her. “The king simply will not believe the word of a maid.”
Gwynnie retreated from the grave. She sat beside Tombstone again, as Emlyn sat down on her other side.
“Kings and their sons have power as long as they have powerful men around them,” Emlyn said, rather coolly. “If you can’t get the son, can you get his man?”
Gwynnie looked at Emlyn, then she turned to Tombstone.
“Renard,” they said together.
“Stop Renard,” Gwynnie went on, “and perhaps Fitzroy’s power will be arrested. He will no longer have a man that will cover up for him.”
“But how do we get him?” Tombstone shook his head. “You planted those jewels on him, did you not? And that hardly worked. He has a habit of ferreting his way out of bad business.” He glanced down at Woodville’s face. “Please, cover him again.”
Once more, Gwynnie reached down into the grave. As respectfully as she could, she covered poor Woodville’s face.
She was about to question what they should do with him when an idea occurred to her. One other person knew where Jerome Woodville was, and perhaps they could use that as a way to get him.
“What are you thinking, miting?” Emlyn asked, her eyes on Gwynnie’s face.
She looked up with the smallest of smiles. “I have thought of a way,” she said softly. “A way to capture Renard, but first … we will need to speak to Pascal.” Her gaze shifted to Tombstone. “We need him to trust you again.”
“He doesn’t trust me.” Tombstone shook his head and stood abruptly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, your last plots lost me my position.”
“And you are telling me you cannot make him listen to you now?”
“No. I cannot. I no longer work for him.”
“How strange, because I could have sworn you two were connected by something more than position.” She stood up beside Tombstone, watching as his jaw grew slack. “Same jawline, same eyes.” She pointed at his face. “You are related, are you not?”
“God’s pestilence on you! How did you know that?” He stepped back in sudden panic. “It is a secret.”
“You are alike,” she said. “You say he will not listen to you anymore, because you no longer work for him, but will he not listen to you when you are his own blood?”
Tombstone’s eyes narrowed. “I think I underestimated that little maid I saw, crouching beside Battersby’s body.”
“Every man underestimates a maid. So, will you do it? Will you speak to Pascal?”
“I do not like this, miting.” Emlyn sat fidgeting in the corner of the stable, pulling at the yeoman’s gloves. They had scarcely moved since Tombstone had left. The hours had gone on, and morning light could not be far off now. “When Pascal comes, you and I can call ourselves hanged already.”
“Shh,” Gwynnie pleaded with her mother. “At least this way, justice is done.”
“Hang justice!” Emlyn muttered harshly.
“Hang it?” Gwynnie repeated, looking at Emlyn. “What happened to you? What happened to the woman who came back to our attic rooms with blood on her palms, saying justice was served at last?”
Emlyn said nothing. She just rubbed her hands together, as if they still had blood upon them and she was trying desperately to wipe it off.
