Wulfstan took Lucie’s hands, looked into her eyes. ‘I think you have fulfilled your duty with Joanna. You have proven that she does not wish to be understood. What more do you hope to learn from her? What is it you seek?’
Lucie looked into Wulfstan’s age-clouded eyes. He relied more and more on Brother Henry’s assistance. His round face was wrinkled, his voice crackled. She did not like to distress him. But she must. ‘I think something terrible happened in Scarborough.’ She did not like the sorrow she had brought to the cloudy eyes. ‘Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Joanna merely fell ill. If that is so, if we can bring her back to her senses, she might simply tell us that. Then we will know to leave her in peace to do penance at St Clement’s.’
Wulfstan shook his head, his kindly face sad. ‘I do not think she merely fell ill, Lucie, and neither do you. But whether it benefits anyone to know what happened — ’ he shrugged. ‘Still, Jaro and Maddy were murdered. It is best to make known the murderer.’ Wulfstan let go her hands. ‘I will do as you wish.’
‘You are a good friend. I am sorry I burden you with this.’
‘Friends are blessed burdens.’
Lucie hugged him. ‘I must get to the shop. I will return tomorrow morning.’
Wulfstan put his hands gently on Lucie’s shoulders and frowned sternly. ‘You are doing too much, Lucie. The infirmaress from St Clement’s — Prudentia, a promising name — she can help me bleed Joanna, and surely she can purge her. Leave the mandragora wine with me.’ Wulfstan smiled at her uncertain look. ‘I promise to administer it, Lucie. No matter what I think of Magda Digby, I have agreed to try your idea.’
Lucie was exhausted by the time she opened the shop. A stranger had delivered a letter from Owen. From time to time, Lucie stole glimpses at it, learning gradually the odd story of Matthew Calverley and his missing wife.
Thirteen
Owen had not slept well. What bothered him was Matthew Calverley’s claim that he did not want to know what had happened to his wife. Such uncertainty about Lucie would drive Owen mad. He would be obsessed with finding her, either alive or dead. If dead, he would be devastated, but he would know, he would understand, he would provide for a grave nearby, where he could visit her every day. And if alive — well, he would not like to learn that she was happier without him. But he would know.
Matthew Calverley did not know. Did not wish to know.
But what of the rest of the family?
Indeed. What of the eldest son?
When Louth woke, Owen informed him that he was going back to Leeds to speak with Frank Calverley.
‘Why, for pity’s sake? We have spoken with the head of the family.’
‘I must ask him why no one searched for the truth about his mother’s disappearance.’
Louth, blinking himself awake, shaded his eyes from the dawn light and frowned at Owen. ‘Why? That is not your concern.’
Owen paced, eager to be off. ‘I cannot explain, but I think it might be important.’
Louth sighed. ‘So we spend another day in Leeds.’
‘Not “we”. You go on with the men. Tell me your route. I shall ride hard to catch up with you.’
‘I should accompany you.’
Owen noticed an edge in Louth’s voice. ‘Why? You do not agree that this is anything to be concerned about.’
Louth struggled to sit up. He had slept hard on his left side and his face carried the impression of the wrinkled bedclothes. He yawned. ‘That is not the point.’
‘I shall not tarry.’
Louth looked upset. ‘What if you are delayed?’
‘Then you arrive at Pontefract before I do.’ Owen suddenly guessed Louth’s concern. ‘You think I have no intention of arriving in Pontefract, that I mean to return to York.’
Louth looked surprised, then smiled apologetically. ‘It had occurred to me.’ He swung his pale legs off the side of the bed, called for his squire.
Owen wished to be alone with his thoughts. Louth tended to chatter. ‘I will catch up with you on the road. I swear.’
The servant brought in two tankards of ale for Louth and Owen to wash the night out of their mouths. Then he helped his master dress.
‘For my soul’s sake, I cannot let you go alone,’ Louth said as he tugged and pulled at his houppelande to make it hang just right. ‘Go along now,’ he said to the servant, watching him leave, checking outside the door that he was truly gone.
Owen found Louth’s behaviour more than a little puzzling. He acted as if he were about to divulge some terrible secret. But they had not been speaking of secrets.
Louth stood, hands behind his back, head bowed slightly so that his extra chin pressed forward, looking up through his thick brows. ‘Forgive me for pretending that I do not trust you. That is not the truth. It is in no way the truth.’ He took a deep breath, brought his head up straight and looked Owen in the eye. ‘Maddy — the serving girl who was murdered — would be alive if I had been worthy of my Prince’s trust. But I am not. I have made a mess of this Longford business from the beginning. And now a young woman is dead because of it. I mean to find her murderer.’
Owen was torn between amusement at the thought of the softly rounded, pampered canon facing the murderer, and sympathy with the man’s need to atone for his sin of omission. He chose to play with Louth. ‘I do not think Frank Calverley is your man.’
Louth frowned in puzzlement. ‘I should not think so either.’
‘Neither does Mistress Calverley’s disappearance have anything to do with the girl’s death, I suspect.’
Louth bristled. ‘Are you purposefully misunderstanding me?’
Owen bowed his head slightly. ‘Not at all, Sir Nicholas. I am trying to see what your confession has to do with my going back into Leeds alone to speak with Frank Calverley.’
‘It was not a confession.’
Owen shrugged. ‘Call it what you wish. I appreciate your fine feelings about Longford’s maid. But keeping Lancaster content is the issue as far as I am concerned, and I would appreciate your making it to Pontefract on schedule. If — and it is only an if — I do not arrive on time, you can assure him that I shall be there soon.’
Louth closed his eyes. ‘I wish to observe your methods. That is why I wish to accompany you.’
Owen did not try to hide his surprise. ‘What do you mean, methods?’
‘How you question people.’
‘What do you think I am, an interrogator?’
It was Louth’s turn to look surprised. ‘Is that not what you are?’
‘God’s blood, I am an apothecary’s apprentice!’
Louth’s red face turned redder, his breath expelled in a loud guffaw. But seeing the fury on Owen’s face, he quickly grew serious. ‘Please forgive me, but you must indeed think me an ass if you expect me to believe that. What in Heaven’s name are you doing here if you are an apothecary’s apprentice?’
‘I occasionally work for Thoresby.’ Owen was glowering and he hated himself for it. He should laugh and shrug it off. Of course he was a spy, and a damned good one, truth be told. Why was he always denying it? He forced a grin. Shrugged. ‘A spy never admits his calling.’
Louth laughed. ‘Already you teach me. See how I need to observe you?’
Owen sighed. ‘Leave your men at the gates of the city, if you will. We do not want to call attention to ourselves.’
As Owen and Louth rode along the River Aire to Leeds, sunshine warmed the river meadows and glinted off the water. Owen imagined Matthew Calverley bending over his garden, hoeing away the weeds, obliterating memories. He had noted certain silences yesterday. Some occurred around the issue of Mistress Anne Calverley turning against Hugh and Joanna. She seemed an unnatural mother to turn against the children who favoured her. Was it because they favoured her? Was there something about herself she did not like seeing again in her children? Something accursed in her? But would she not try to help them, teach them how to fight it?