The Crown A Novel

34


But what are you doing here?” I asked Geoffrey Scovill.

He laughed. “What am I doing here? What are you doing out of your priory, in the middle of town, and not the most respectable part of it, either?”

Sister Agatha said haughtily, “We are not required to inform you of our business, Master Scovill.”

He bowed to us. “Well, then, I will be on my way.”

“Wait!” Sister Agatha said in a panic. “You can’t leave us now, with only John to protect us. Those men could return.”

Geoffrey stood there, arms folded. His blue eyes danced as he waited.

I sighed. “Sister Agatha, we have to explain our purpose to him.” Over her protests, I quickly told Geoffrey how I’d learned of the doll, where it was found, and when, and what the implications were. He listened closely.

“So now you’re personally going to interview possible witnesses to a serious crime?” he asked. “Why didn’t you send word to Justice Campion or the coroner? Or to me?”

Sister Agatha said, “We knew you had all made your judgment.”

I studied Geoffrey’s face.

“You’re not sure the right man was arrested, either,” I guessed. “That’s why you’ve returned to Dartford. You’re continuing to investigate, too.”

Geoffrey said quickly, “I knew nothing of these Westerly children—that’s not why I’m here. But since we have collided, I suggest that I accompany you into the house and lead the questioning.”

“I will ask the questions,” I insisted.

Geoffrey laughed again. “I know that if I give you an order, you’ll not obey it, Sister Joanna. So I can only suggest some form of cooperation?”

“Very well.” I turned to John. “I think it’s best you stay here and watch over the horses.”

Sister Agatha and I moved to the front door of the house. She gave me a strange sidelong glance, which I ignored.

We knocked, hard. It took a couple moments for the door to open, and then only partway. A sharp-faced teenage girl, in a soiled apron, peered out, suspicious.

“Were ye part of the fighting on the street?” she asked. “We don’t want no trouble.”

Geoffrey pushed the door open. “I am the parish constable of Rochester. We have some questions, not for you but for the Westerly family.”

“Are they at home?” I asked her.

“Aye, some of them are.” She beckoned us inside, grudgingly. It was a dim room, not very tidy, smelling of onions.

The ceiling creaked above. I looked up, my heart racing.

The girl nodded. “The woman’s home, with the daughters.”

Sister Agatha and I stared at her. “What woman?” I whispered.

The girl swiftly backed away, twisting her apron in her hands. “I don’t want no trouble,” she repeated. She pointed at the worn set of stairs on the side of the room. “It’s that way.”

We went up the stairs, single file, Geoffrey leading. He knocked on the door at the top of the stairs and said loudly, “We need to speak to the Westerly family.”

I heard a faint rustling on the other side of the door, but no one answered.

I whispered to Geoffrey, “What if the children go out the windows?”

He nodded—then pushed against the door with his right shoulder. It had been locked, but the lock was a poor one and it broke easily.

I pushed my way around Geoffrey, to be the first. It appeared empty of people. It was a cleaner room than downstairs, with light streaming in through the back windows. A row of stools lined one wall; the other end contained a long wooden table. It opened into a kitchen.

“Sister Joanna!”

Martha Westerly flew to me like a small bird. I had her in my arms, felt her thick hair and smelled her skin. I held her so tight I feared I’d crush her bones.

“What is your name?” Geoffrey asked someone.

I turned to see whom he spoke to. A slim, dark-haired woman stood in the corner, next to the kitchen. She was a little older than me, and wore an apron, cleaner than the one worn by the girl downstairs. She would have been pretty but for the red scar next to her left ear—and the look of terror in her eyes. She had flattened herself against the wall, as if we were a trio of killers.

“I am Catherine Westerly,” she said. Her voice was low and rather rough. Her chest rose and fell; she was actually panting in fear.

“How are you related to Master Stephen Westerly?” I asked.

“I am his wife.”

“Impossible,” said Sister Agatha. “His wife died less than a month ago, at Dartford Priory.”

The woman stirred from the wall. “I am his second wife,” she said, a touch defiantly. “All was done legally. The banns were read.”

“It’s true, Sister Joanna,” said a voice from the doorway.

It was Ethel, wearing a clean dress—and a face puffy with misery. Behind her was the bedroom, with straw pallets on the floor.

“My father has married this woman.” Ethel shot Catherine Westerly a look of resentment. Instead of reacting in anger or offense, Ethel’s stepmother bit her lip and looked down.

Sister Agatha cleared her throat. “We are glad to see that you are safe, children, though the circumstances are . . . irregular. We’ve come to ask you a few questions.”

Catherine Westerly said quickly, “What about? Shouldn’t my husband be here? He’s out for the day, with Harold.”

“The questions are for the children,” I said. I set Martha down and beckoned to Sister Agatha, who carried the sack. She nodded and pulled out the doll.

Martha screamed, “Lucinda! You found Lucinda!” She grabbed the doll and danced in a circle.

Ethel looked at me, confused.

“You came all this way to bring her the doll?”

“Do you know where we found it?” I countered.

Ethel shook her head.

“In the passageway, outside of the guest bedchamber where Lord and Lady Chester slept on All Souls’ Day.”

Faster than I’d ever seen anyone go in my life, Ethel streaked for the bedroom door. She was just an inch from its open window when Geoffrey grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down.

We placed Ethel and Martha, both of them frightened, on two stools. Plainly something had happened they did not want to tell us.

“We won’t punish you,” Geoffrey repeated. “We just want to know what you saw and heard that night. It’s very important.”

“We weren’t in that part of the priory—we don’t know anything,” Ethel said.

“Girls, listen to me, I know you were upset because I wasn’t there to comfort you right after your mother died,” I said. Martha nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. “And I should have come looking for you before today, or someone should have. I’ve sorely disappointed you. But some strange and frightening things have happened at Dartford Priory. You are young, but you should know this.”

I had their full attention now.

“I need to protect the priory, the place where your mother worked since she was fifteen years old. But I can’t do it without your help. Will you help me?”

Little Martha looked at her sister pleadingly.

Ethel groaned and said, “All right, Sister Joanna.”

She took a deep breath and began.

“After no one could find you, we ran away and hid in the friars’ brewery. There’s a little room no one goes in. It was cold, and it smelled bad, but we were safe there. We didn’t want to leave the priory just yet. The next day, everyone was running about, getting ready for the feast; we weren’t noticed. We had places all over the priory we liked to go to, where no one saw us.”

I opened my mouth to ask more about their secret hiding places, but Geoffrey tapped my arm gently.

Ethel went on: “We overheard the sisters and servants talking about the feast, and we knew that most people didn’t even want that man at Dartford. It wasn’t right he be there. And then, afterward, we heard some of the sisters crying. We knew that Lord Chester said very bad things about the priory—that it would be closed down soon. And he hurt one of the novices. We heard it was you, Sister Joanna.”

I shook my head. “It was Sister Winifred.”

Ethel hung her head, and I knew the next part of her story did not come easily. “We don’t have much money, Sister. We heard that Lord Chester wore very fine rings when he came to the feast. And then he fell down drunk and had to be carried to the front rooms . . .” Her voice trailed away.

Geoffrey said, very softly, “You thought you’d sneak into his room and take one of the rings?”

Martha began to cry again. “We’re so sorry.” I stroked her soft little arm, trying to soothe her.

“How did you get to the front of the priory, when the doors were all locked?” Geoffrey asked.

“Through a window,” Ethel said.

“But we checked all the windows and—” I poked Geoffrey this time. I didn’t want to use up the goodwill we’d built by challenging them on the windows.

“What time was it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Ethel. “It was a long time after last prayers. We’d slept for most of the afternoon, so we weren’t tired. We knew where the guest rooms were, so we went there as quietly as we could. We opened the door off the passageway just a crack and—” She jumped in her chair as if she were reliving some shock.

“What?” Geoffrey asked in a low, urgent voice.

“There were two doors. Left and right. A woman was going through the door to the bedchamber on the right.”

My stomach turned over.

“Do you have an idea who it was?” Geoffrey asked.

“No, sir.” She shook her head violently. “It was dark.”

“Did she wear a habit? Was it a sister?”

“I just couldn’t tell. It was a . . . a glimpse. She went through the door and shut it behind her. But I saw that what she wore was long and dark.”

Dominican habits were white, so it couldn’t have been a nun. Unless the woman wore a cloak over it.

Geoffrey leaned in, closer. “Young or old? How quickly did the person move?”

“Quickly, sir. But I just couldn’t say how old the woman was.”

I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Did you see anything more?”

She shook her head. “We went back out into the passageway.”

I grimaced in disappointment. But Geoffrey’s eyes stayed locked on her face. “There is something else?” he prompted, calm as ever. I don’t know how he managed such patience.

“We heard voices. Two people. One voice was definitely a woman’s.”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“No, sir,” said Ethel. “They spoke for a moment or so. Low voices. Then the man said, ‘No.’ He wasn’t shouting or angry. Just the one word. But then, there was this strange thumping noise from the room. We heard it at least four times. Thump, thump, thump, thump.”

A chill clawed at my spine. The children had heard Lord Chester being murdered.

“It was so strange, we ran away,” Ethel said. “We went back to the friars’ brewery house, and the next morning we walked to town. Father came back the next night.”

Sister Agatha grabbed my arm and shook it. “It was a woman in his room,” she said, excited. “Not Brother Edmund.”

Yes, but which woman? I wondered.

We both looked at Geoffrey Scovill. He was deep in thought.

“What happens now?” I asked him.

“I will report to Constable Campion and Coroner Hancock what I’ve heard here—what happens after that, I can’t be sure,” he said carefully.

Sister Agatha pressed to leave at once, to return to the priory, but Geoffrey said he needed to speak to Catherine Westerly for a few more minutes, with the children not listening. He persuaded a reluctant Sister Agatha to occupy the girls, and beckoned for me to help him with their stepmother.

Catherine Westerly regarded the two of us with hard, wary eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“Before you married the children’s father, where did you live?” Geoffrey asked. “Did you say it was Southwark?”

“Why?”

“Because I think that before you married, you worked for a bawd.”

Catherine Westerly covered her face with both hands and turned away from us, toward the wall. “Go away, go away,” she moaned.

I was shocked. I’d never been in the same room as a harlot before.

“I’m not asking you this to shame you,” Geoffrey said, his manner gentle. “I saw how terrified you were when we came in, as if you were in hiding. Also, that scar on your face is one that the bawds give to whores who’ve disobeyed. Did Master Westerly settle up for you when he took you to Dartford?”

She shook her head slightly, her face still covered. “He tried and tried, but he couldn’t earn enough money to pay off my debt. He knew his wife was dying, so we went into hiding in London. We are married—that is true. I have the papers.”

Geoffrey nodded. “I believe you, Mistress Westerly. I only bring up this delicate subject because the children will need to be interviewed again, officially, and I fear that you will not remain in Dartford.”

She shrugged. “It’s up to my husband where we live.”

“Very well,” Geoffrey said. “I will come back and speak to him as soon as I can.” He touched my elbow. “Now we can go.”

We were halfway to the door when the girls flew into my arms. Martha had a lock around my waist. “Don’t leave us here, Sister Joanna,” she begged.

Ethel’s eyes filled with tears. “I want to go to the priory, to be with you and the sisters,” she whispered. “I’m old enough to work. Take me.”

My throat tightened; I couldn’t speak. I glanced at Catherine Westerly, who’d heard everything.

“Yes, the children hate me,” she said flatly, and straightened her shoulders. “They blame me for the neglect of their mother the last year of her life. But I shall do my duty and care for them the best I know how. Perhaps, in time, they will come to like me.”

Geoffrey turned to me: “Come, we’ll talk outside.”

I kissed the girls good-bye one more time and followed Geoffrey out the door.

“I can’t let the children be raised by a harlot—it’s a crime,” I whispered to him, brokenly, as we walked down the steps.

“Working for a bawd may be a sin, but it’s not a crime,” he said. “Those brothels are licensed. In fact, I’ve heard tell the Bishop of Winchester is the landlord for most of the Southwark brothels.”

Stephen Gardiner owned the land that brothels were built on? I put that from my mind. Unthinkable.

“What of the children’s souls?” I demanded. “They require moral guidance, not just food and a bed.”

We were outside the house. Sister Agatha was right: it was late. We hadn’t much time to get back to the priory.

Geoffrey said, “She appears to be penitent and desire a new life. Westerly must love her very much to make her his wife and risk so much on her behalf.”

I shuddered. “Love her? How could he love such a person? His poor dead wife, Lettice, the mother of his children, was a kind woman, a good Christian.”

Geoffrey looked up at the second floor of the house, as if he expected to see the faces of the Westerly children. No one looked back. “We can’t always help whom we love,” he said in a strange voice.

Sister Agatha shouted from the wagon. “What are you waiting for? We must get back to the priory, Sister.”

“Yes, let’s depart, Sister Joanna,” Geoffrey said, and steered me to the wagon. “My horse is in town, near the market. Why don’t you take me there, and then I’ll escort you? I should have a word with your prioress about what we’ve learned.”

Sister Agatha said, “Couldn’t you walk to the market?”

Her rudeness surprised me. “Sister, we should not begrudge this.” I turned to Geoffrey. “Please, come with us.”

It was an uncomfortable ride to the market, with Sister Agatha puffed up with disapproval. As soon as Geoffrey leaped out of the wagon to mount his own horse, I leaned over to ask, “Why are you angry with Geoffrey Scovill? He has assisted us today.”

“Sister Joanna, there is a certain familiarity between the two of you that, as your novice mistress, I must correct you on,” she said, in her most pompous and scolding tone. “When you converse with him, it appears that you are well acquainted with each other, though I don’t see how that’s possible. It is most certainly inappropriate.”

I could feel my cheeks redden. “Yes, Sister Agatha,” I said, as meekly as I could manage.

We rode the rest of the way to Dartford Priory in silence, Geoffrey trotting ahead. The sun had never appeared that day. It was the kind of damp November afternoon in which the gray gradually darkens until all trace of light is finally extinguished. I don’t know if it was the grimness of the day, or my nervousness about being late to the priory, but I didn’t feel as much joy as I’d expected over obtaining proof that Brother Edmund was innocent. The discovery that a woman may have killed Lord Chester with such vicious fury unsettled me.

A bleak dusk gripped the countryside as John turned the wagon into the lane leading to Dartford Priory. When we rounded the curve, I saw a ball of orange light glowing in the distance. It made me uneasy; I couldn’t imagine its cause. Two torches burning at our gatehouse wouldn’t illuminate the grounds like that.

Geoffrey kicked the sides of his horse and galloped the rest of the way—he would arrive well ahead of us.

Once we’d neared the gatehouse, I could see a bonfire freshly lit in front of the priory, with two of our servants tending it. Prioress Joan, Brother Richard, and Gregory clustered around three men I did not know. Geoffrey had leaped off his horse to talk to them.

Sister Agatha said, “This can’t possibly be because of us, can it?”

“No, the sun just set a few moments ago,” I said.

We rumbled through the gatehouse arch. As soon as the wagon came to a halt, I scrambled out the back and ran toward Geoffrey.

He turned away from the others to speak to me.

“Did you tell Prioress Joan what the children said?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said, running his hands through his hair.

“But she must know that a woman’s voice was heard, that it was a woman that night.”

“It’s already known,” Geoffrey said.

“But . . . but . . . how?” I stammered.

“The priory received word from these men that today Lady Chester threw herself out the window of her manor. She left a note asking for forgiveness for her crime. It would appear that she killed her own husband and now she’s killed herself.”