He cast a longing look toward the Dover anchorage, struck by the enormous appeal of taking ship across the Narrow Seas. On a clear day, he'd have been able to glimpse the distant hovering line of the French coast.

This day was overcast, appropriate to Walter's dismal thoughts. Winds swirled down from the North Sea, causing the salt water of the Straights to leap high and giving the sea and the town and the castle above a grim and gloomy aspect.

A man wrapped in a dark cloak came out of the inn just as Walter reached the door. A neighboring shopkeeper called out a greeting, revealing that this was Leonard Putney. Walter stopped and stared, struck by how slight Alys's husband was. He watched the fellow until he disappeared from sight, wondering if he could have been mistaken for a woman in the darkness of the Black Jack.

The notion seemed far fetched, involving as it did Robert's permitting Leonard Putney to kiss him in greeting. And yet, stranger ruses had been enacted by those seeking to hide their true activities.

But would Robert have involved Putney, of all people, in his schemes? The man had a better reason than Alys did for wanting Robert dead. Jealousy. Putney had taken Robert's leavings. If he believed she still l.u.s.ted after her former lover, that gave him motive for murder.

Walter's usefulness to the queen lay in his ability to gather information, much of it trivial. He'd kept track of Alys over the years. For their own reasons, his agents made it a practice to frequent all of Dover's inns, which numbered at least ten besides the one Putney owned, and the town's dozens of victualling houses, many of which offered beds as well as food. Any gossip repeated in those places got back to him, and the Putneys had played a prominent role in some of it.

Leonard Putney, despite his profession as an innkeeper, had a reputation as an unfriendly sort. If he had disappeared for three or four days at the beginning of January, no one would have paid particular attention to his absence. Not when Putney owned a second inn in Folkstone, farther west along the coast. He was also reputed to be a smuggler.

Walter had heard that Alys, too, left Dover from time to time, though with her the disappearances were usually in the company of some man. She was regularly beaten for straying, straightaway upon her return. He frowned. The gossips also speculated that it might be Putney himself who arranged the trysts... and profited from them. Such practices were not uncommon. Many an innkeeper dabbled in the business of procuring women for his customers. Wives and maidservants alike sometimes did double duty as prost.i.tutes.

If Alys was one of them, Walter thought, watching the woman herself come forward to greet him the moment he entered the inn, it was doubtful she'd been forced into it. Alys had never been the simple, obedient, grateful mistress Robert had supposed she was. Walter's old friend had possessed a talent, mayhap even a penchant, for selecting women who were out of the ordinary.

No other patrons occupied the common room this early in the day. Walter saw an avaricious expression skate across the cold blue ice of Alys Putney's eyes as she noted the finery in which her new customer was dressed. It altered to something even more calculating when her gaze lifted to his face and she realized she knew him.

"Master Pendennis." Her voice came out as a sultry purr. "It has been a long time."

Not long enough, he thought. "'Tis Sir Walter now, Alys."

She bobbed a mocking curtsey and waited. No doubt she expected him to order a meal or bespeak a room. He did neither, but simply stared at her, remembering.

What had first drawn Robert to Alys Sparcheforde was not in question. She'd set out to lure him using a ripe body and a tart tongue. She'd soon gotten what she wanted from him-a house to call her own, money for clothes and sweetmeats. She'd been sixteen when Robert first met her, and she'd held him for three years, longer than any of his other woman.

Robert had severed his ties with Alys abruptly, following his return from a sojourn in Lancashire. He had tried to provide for her, after his own callous fashion, by offering her to Walter. Unfortunately, he'd done so in Alys's presence, right after he'd told her he was selling the Dover house. Walter had made matters worse by declining to take her on as his mistress.

"You have done well here," Walter said, the comment designed to be a deliberate reminder that she'd married Leonard Putney within a month of the day Robert ended their a.s.sociation.

She was still as fair-haired as he remembered her, but b.r.e.a.s.t.s that had formerly jutted out, firm and high and just begging to be fondled, now sagged alarmingly. Her once ripe mouth looked pinched.

"Well enough," she agreed. Her fingers strayed to her face, where Walter's sharp eyes picked out a small scar, a mark such as might have been made by a blow from a hand wearing a ring.

He knew better than to waste pity on her. Even if Susanna had not told him what Alys had done to Jennet, he had an instinctual understanding of the little ways women like Alys used to give themselves the illusion of having power over others. She was the sort who'd offer to sew a tear in a doublet and manage to stick her needle into the wearer a dozen times before the mending was complete.

But could she have killed Robert, even contrived that Susanna be blamed, as the Lady Mary suggested? She was devious. Cunning. Venal and vengeful. But not the most clever of women. Robert's other mistresses had all possessed greater intelligence. And more education, too.

Mayhap that was why Alys had lasted longest.

"Have you had many lodgers here from London these last few weeks?"

"Men keep at home when the days are cold."

"And you, Alys?" he asked. "Did you travel during Yuletide?"

"Progresses are for royalty, Sir Walter." She almost smiled. "Have you some reason for these questions?"

"I had thought news from London might have reached you ere now."

"What news?" Impatience sharpened her words. Annoyance radiated from her narrowed eyes.

"News of Sir Robert Appleton's death."

"Sir Robert has been dead for many months," she informed him in haughty tones. "Died of the plague, they say. In France."

"That appears to have been a case of mistaken ident.i.ty, but he is dead now. Murdered. He was killed ten days ago in London."

He'd hoped his blunt announcement would cause her to betray something-shock, dismay, guilt-but her face did not alter in the least. Nor did she blurt out any telling revelations. A full minute pa.s.sed before she spoke. "'Tis naught to do with me."

"Did he contact you during this last year?"

"I thought him dead, I tell you."

"When did you last see him?"

"Not since before I married Leonard."

"And Leonard?"

"What about Leonard?" She sounded belligerent now, but he heard an edge of fear beneath the bravado.

"Has he been here in Dover throughout the last fortnight?"

"'Tis rare Leonard ever leaves Dover. The world comes to us."

"Lies, Alys. I know better."

The clatter of horses' hooves in the innyard spared her the need to answer. With a last, fulminating glare, Alys bustled past him to greet the arriving travelers. She did not even stop for a cloak, but hurried outside, as anxious to escape his questions, he thought, as to welcome new custom.

On a silent curse for the newcomer's bad timing, Walter followed her out. Another few minutes, time to make her angry enough, and she might have let slip some useful information.

Or not.

There was an innate craftiness about the woman. She was also predisposed to a.s.sume she might be blamed for something. Thus, she loudly proclaimed her innocence even before she was accused. That particular combination of characteristics meant she'd be a hard nut for anyone to crack.

As soon as Walter exited the inn, he realized his trip to Dover had been futile. Alys had been resistant to helping him, but she was adamantly opposed to a.s.sisting Susanna. Powerful emotions had turned Alys's face ugly. She glared at the small party of still-mounted riders.

That she recognized Robert's widow and hated her was plain as the chill in the air. But how did she know this was Susanna? Where, Walter wondered, had Alys seen her before?

In London, perhaps? Kneeling beside her dead husband beneath the Eleanor Cross?

Chapter 15.

"Goodwife Putney?" Susanna asked.

A short, yellow-haired woman scowled up at her. Her kirtle was of substantial woollen cloth, dark blue in color and banded with black velvet. Her ap.r.o.n and cap were what any respectable tradeswoman might wear, but her bodice b.u.t.toned up the front only as far as a turned-over collar cut low to reveal a good deal of flesh.

"Yes, Lady Appleton," the woman replied. "I am Alys Putney." Her tone conveyed not just disrespect but outright loathing.

Susanna stared with intense curiosity at her husband's former mistress. Alys was a very different sort of female from Eleanor or Constance. They had been gently born and well educated, taught not only the social graces but how to delve into intellectual matters. Alys seemed more earthy. No doubt she possessed her fair share of native intelligence, but it was plain just to look at her that she was accustomed to relying on physical charms to get what she wanted. She was almost... coa.r.s.e.

It seemed more of a betrayal, somehow, that a woman so common should have been the one with whom she'd shared Robert for such a long time. A foolish thought, Susanna chided herself. What did it matter now?

Susanna glanced at Walter, unsurprised to find him already at the Star with the Long Tail. When she'd been told he'd left Leigh Abbey a half hour ahead of her, she'd a.s.sumed he'd come here to talk to Alys first alone. She wondered why, and how much he'd told the woman about Robert's death. From his sour expression, he'd not had much luck getting information out of her.

"A word with you in private?" she suggested to the innkeeper.

Where they were now, everything they said to each other could be overheard by Fulke and Bates, as well as by the ostler lingering at the door to the stables.

Despite the fact that Alys was shivering in the cold morning air, she made no effort to move inside. "We've no need of your sort of custom. Be off with you."

"I perceive, then, that you know my husband is dead and I am accused of killing him."

Alys's eyes widened.

Her reaction gave Susanna pause. The woman struck her as sly but not clever. Did she have the wit to feign innocence of recent events in London? Or had she, in truth, heard nothing of the charges against Susanna until this moment?

"How?" Alys moved forward to lay one hand on the pommel of Susanna's saddle. "How did you kill him?"

"He died of poison but not by my hand." Susanna gave the fingers near her knee a pointed look.

Alys loosed her grip and backed away. Her mouth worked soundlessly for another moment, causing her face to take on an unfortunate resemblance to a fish, before she sputtered a denial to Susanna's unvoiced accusation. "I had naught to do with any poisoning. You'll never prove I did."

Her voice was shrill enough to attract the attention of pa.s.sersby on the street. A crowd began to gather.

Determined to grill Alys further, Susanna freed her right knee from the purpose-cut hollow in her sidesaddle. She had every confidence that she could convince Alys to answer more questions. If flattery did not work, there was always bribery. And, as a last resort, threats. Half an hour in private with the woman should be enough.

The velvet sling that took the place of a stirrup on a man's saddle made reaching the ground una.s.sisted a hazardous process. Before Susanna could dismount, let alone try any method of persuasion, a man barreled in through the gate.

"Tell them nothing!" he bellowed.

Alys's glare shifted from Susanna to the newcomer.

Leonard Putney, Susanna presumed. He was short, a few scant inches taller than his wife. As he advanced upon them, his cloak swirled away from his body. He had little flesh on his bones, but by the pained expression on Alys's face when he seized her arm, his grip possessed a bruising strength.

"They are here to cause trouble," Putney told his wife. "They seek someone else to blame for her crime."

"We seek the truth," Walter objected.

Putney spat.

Cold, salt-tinged air eddied all around them, carried in off the Narrow Seas, but it was the look in Putney's eyes that caused Susanna to shiver. She had witnessed powerful, irrational emotions before, but this was the first time such intense hatred had been directed at her. It seemed to fill the s.p.a.ce between them with a palpable force.

"Begone!" Putney rasped. Spittle dotted his beard.

Alys flinched. Susanna could not tell if she was reacting to her husband's harsh voice, or to the increased pressure of his fingers on her arm, or out of fear for what he would do when they were alone. Leonard Putney hated Susanna, but he also despised everyone else in the innyard, including his own wife.

"I know why you came here!" he shouted."You'll not put the blame on us. We were here in Dover and together when Appleton was killed."

Susanna's mare shied away, sidestepping nervously. Walter had gone for his horse as soon as Putney appeared and now, mounted, seized Susanna's reins to lead her out of danger. The innkeeper's enraged and rapidly purpling face convinced her to go quietly. The man was not about to confess, or allow Alys to. For now, they had reached an impa.s.se.

With a farewell nod to Alys and a final glance that was not devoid of sympathy for the woman, Susanna rode out of the innyard.

"I will have my men investigate further," Walter promised when they'd left the walls of Dover behind. "Such a heated denial smacks of a guilty conscience. When Putney found you had come to his inn, he was quick to a.s.sume the worst."

"Knowing what he does of his wife's past, he might react the same way if he'd only just heard of Robert's murder. Some traveler may have brought word of it to Dover."

"We will learn, I think, that they were not in Dover ten days ago. They are lying about something, Susanna. I am convinced of that much."

"Yes," she agreed, "but I am not certain that means they had aught to do with Robert's death. We came to Alys first, after Constance, only because she lives nearest to London. There are others with far better reasons to want Robert dead. Others with more recent cause to hate him."

Walter hesitated, then asked, "Is it necessary that you be the one to go to Lancashire to question Eleanor Lowell?"

"It was beneath an Eleanor Cross that Robert died."

"True enough, but what purpose does it serve for you to travel so far? You might instead leave the task to others. You have already agreed to let Catherine ask questions for you in Scotland."

"Only because I am not permitted to go there in person. Besides, I have no one I trust to do the task at Appleton Manor."

"What about that man of law Robert employed? The one from Manchester."

"Matthew Grimshaw?" At the thought, Susanna grimaced. "He would either bl.u.s.ter at Eleanor, demanding answers and trying to frighten her into agreeing to whatever he suggested, just to escape his badgering, or he'd cave in without getting anything out of her, thwarted the moment she took offense at his att.i.tude and refused to talk to him."

"I could go north in your stead."

"No, Walter. I think it best that I visit Appleton Manor myself."

Curiosity drove her, as well as the need to investigate. Eleanor Lowell did not live there alone. With her was Robert's only child.

Chapter 16.

In common with most visitors who pa.s.sed through Dover's Walgate, Jennet's eyes were drawn left, to the hilltop castle some quarter mile distant.

Her goal, however, was much more modest, a certain grocer's shop. From the exterior, the half-timbered house did not appear to be a very prosperous place. Tucked away on a side street, its windows had wooden shutters hinged at the top and bottom but, contrary to the custom followed by most shopkeepers, they had not been opened to form a counter on which to display goods.