Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

“The messenger is not the most savory character is why I hesitate,” Ridley said finally. “But he would have no cause to murder Will.”

“Still, I would talk with him. He may know something useful.”

Ridley rubbed his double chin and frowned. “That’s a problem. I have no idea how to find him.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Ridley shrugged. “He just appeared at regular intervals and received his orders. And now that I’ve handed the business over to my son and Will is gone, I doubt that I’ll see the man again.”

“A surprisingly inefficient arrangement.”

Ridley sighed and threw up his hands. “You must understand. With our on-and-off war with France, it is impossible to find someone both honest and capable to run messages across the Channel. Wirthir was willing enough and exceptionally reliable – for good pay, of course – and so I did not ask questions. But I suspect he did some pirating or smuggling on the side.”

“Wirthir?”

“Martin Wirthir. A Fleming. He must have stayed with someone in York while Will prepared his response, which sometimes entailed completing business before he could reply. But I have no idea where Wirthir stayed.”

“Your son will not use him?”

Ridley shook his head. “My Matthew is an innocent. My fault for leaving him in the care of his mother so long. I should have sent him to the Scorbys sooner. But he will learn. His greed will teach him. For now Matthew believes that business can be successfully carried out in complete honesty. He never approved of Wirthir.”

“Your son is in Calais?”

Ridley nodded. “He will travel back and forth between Calais and London, as I did.”

“And how is it that you felt comfortable crossing the Channel?”

“John Goldbetter has all sorts of connections.”

“Ah.”

When the two men had finished their repast, Cecilia Ridley returned to show Owen up to a small private chamber. “This is my son’s room when he is at home. I thought you would be comfortable here. I thank you for escorting Gilbert.” Cecilia’s face had some more color now. “Please.” She touched his arm. “Can you tell me anything else about Will’s death?”

“It may have been robbery, though it was violent for that. A ring he wore on his right hand is missing. You knew him well. Could you describe the ring?”

“It was a signet. He used it for sealing his letters. Nothing unusual. Not like Gilbert’s rings.”

“You were good friends?”

Cecilia Ridley’s hand fluttered to her neck. “Will was kind to me. He helped me set up the accounts. Found a steward when ours died of plague. Always came with presents for the children’s birthdays.”

“This question will seem unkind, but forgive me, I must ask it. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Will Crounce?”

Cecilia shook her head. “He was a gentle man, Captain Archer. I cannot imagine anyone hating him so.”

In the morning, Ridley showed Owen the ground floor, the stores of wine from Gascony, the stone-floored room in which all estate records were kept. Owen was most impressed by a curing room, where food was dried, smoked, or salted. A small hearth and a large stone sink with a drain made it cleverly convenient. Owen had never seen the like. Ridley was pleased. And Owen, seeing the man’s genuine pleasure in his house, could not help but like him a little more.

All the same, Owen was grateful to leave Riddlethorpe. There was a tension between Ridley and his wife that made Owen feel in the way. And surely they had much to say to each other about the murder of their friend and business partner.

As Owen told Lucie over supper, “The oddest part was how Cecilia Ridley’s face changed when her husband was present. It darkened, became stony. That, my love, is an unhappy marriage.”

Lucie considered all he had told her. The elaborate house, Cecilia Ridley’s simplicity, the subject of the argument between Crounce and Ridley the night of the murder, what Cecilia Ridley had said about Crounce. “It sounds to me as if Cecilia Ridley had far more affection for Will Crounce than she has for her husband.”

Owen turned his good eye on her. “I had the same thought.”

Lucie bit her lip, thinking. “There is nothing surprising in that, Gilbert Ridley having lived away for most of their married life, but if it’s so apparent to us, what must it be like for Ridley?”

“You mean, did he kill Crounce for stealing his wife’s affection?”

Lucie started to nod, then sighed and shook her head. “No. It does not fit your description of Gilbert Ridley. His only passion is wealth. Not his wife.”

“What have you learned about Jasper de Melton?”

“He has disappeared. His mother died, and Jasper vanished.”

“Just as I feared. The boy is afraid that the murderers will come for him.”

“Or they already have.” Lucie hated saying it aloud.

Owen rubbed his scar.

Lucie took a deep breath. “The stranger who helped me on the road from Freythorpe has offered to search for the boy.”

Owen’s fist slammed into the table. “And what was he doing here?”

“Did you hear me? He has offered to help.”

“I don’t want his help.”

Lucie’s eyes flamed. She jumped up, knocking her stool backward. “Oh, indeed? I humble myself and risk my immortal soul gossiping with the citizens of York for you, and you reject the help I found? How gracious you are.” She stormed out of the room.

Owen felt like a hypocrite for criticizing Ridley’s marriage.

Martinmas. One of Thoresby’s least favorite feast days. As the Archbishop grew older, he disliked November more and more, the beginning of a long darkness. He especially disliked November in York. He usually managed to stay in Windsor until spring, but this year several of Thoresby’s archdeacons were misbehaving and he thought it wise to make his presence felt among them. Trouble with his archdeacons had an unpleasant tendency to involve murder.

But the feast was not entirely gloomy. Gilbert Ridley had made a most generous gift to the minster’s Lady Chapel, one of Thoresby’s contributions to the glorious cathedral, and the one closest to his heart. Considering the size of the gift, Thoresby could do no less than invite the man to dine with him.

The Archbishop was worried about the dinner; it was the first time he would be speaking to Ridley since Will Crounce was murdered, and it must be obvious to Ridley that Thoresby had made no effort to find Crounce’s murderers beyond the initial inquiries made by Archer. Gilbert Ridley might require an explanation.

But Ridley could not be too angry if he donated all that money for Thoresby’s Lady Chapel…

And, after all, Archer had come up with nothing. Even Martin Wirthir, the go-between for Ridley and Crounce, had eluded Thoresby and Archer. Wirthir appeared to have vanished.

Thoresby paced. It was no good. He had to admit to himself, if to no one else, that it was the situation at Sheen that had turned his thoughts away from Will Crounce’s murder.

When Thoresby had arrived at Windsor, there were orders – worded as a request, but from the King – that Thoresby was to go to the royal castle of Sheen and escort Queen Phillippa to Windsor. Having a deep and abiding love – courtly, to be sure – for Queen Phillippa, Thoresby had been happy to oblige.

But a new lady-in-waiting had ruined the occasion for Thoresby. An impertinent upstart from a family grown rich in trade, seventeen-year-old Alice Perrers offended Thoresby by her mere presence in the same room as Queen Phillippa. Bold of eye, blunt of tongue, with a laugh that shattered the peace of the lovely Sheen, Alice Perrers had inexplicably become Queen Phillippa’s favorite.