The Service of the Dead

Ah. Now? “What of William? Should I suggest that she invite him to dine with her?”

A chuckle. “As I said, William looks to his wife, the imperious Isabella, in such matters. I have little insight into the woman married to the man I love. Faith, I try not to think of her. After all, I intrude on her marriage.”

Defeated, Kate complimented Drusilla on the delicate spicing of the stew and the remarkable wine she was serving.

“The wine – yes, it is exceptional, is it not? A gift from William. I should have thought he would share some with you. His factor made a clever deal with a vintner who found himself short on funds in Calais. Which reminds me, how are you faring with Lionel as your factor?”

Kate groaned.

Drusilla laughed and took Kate’s hand. “Something clearly troubles you, Kate. I believe your trade is doing well, both the guesthouse and your shipping, yes? So it is Lionel Neville who troubles you?”

“Not just Lionel.” She told her about the king’s men searching the ship.

“Oh, my dear, that is troubling. Perhaps it is time you remarried. The Nevilles are clearly not protecting you sufficiently.”

“I am better off on my own. You know the terms of Simon’s will.” Kate fought to keep her tone light, teasing.

“From what I’ve heard, not one of those who have approached William for his consent is worth less than Simon.”

It would not take much to be worth more than Simon. But it infuriated Kate that William took it upon himself to advise her to remarry. “My cousin should not jeopardize friendships with offers he’s no right to make.”

“Katherine, your mother, my dear friend, asked William to watch over you. Any one of the men he’s chosen for you would make you a good husband. And save you from the clutches of the Nevilles.”

“I will decide whether or not to wed again. And, if I do, I will make my own choice. William should see to his own. What has he done for Alice Hatten? Did he help her make a new beginning?”

Drusilla flushed. “Alice Hatten. Another woman I choose not to think about. You might have simply told me to mind my own business. You did not need to bring her up. But as you did, I know nothing of her fate. He never speaks of Alice.”

That had been clumsy. “Forgive me, Drusilla. Clearly the wine has gone to my head, and it is time I left.” Kate rose. Was this the same wine that William had sent to the guesthouse? It was strong. But not so unusual, not enough to topple the sturdy Griselde with two cups.

Drusilla hurried round the table to embrace Kate and apologize for bringing up the subject of marriage.

Kate forced a laugh. “I trust you to advise William to inform potential suitors that he has no say in my affairs.” She glanced out the glazed window. The snow had stopped, though the wind was still blowing the already fallen snow into drifts. Kate thanked Drusilla for the meal and the companionship before stepping out once more into the blustery weather.

Lille and Ghent set their muzzles to the wind and pranced up Stonegate and across High Petergate, clearly glad to be out and about. Kate was headed to the deanery to tell her uncle that she had changed her mind about Sam going to Beverley, so she would not need the letter of introduction from him. But her uncle was not at home. His secretary, Alf, informed her that Dean Richard was dining at the guesthouse with Lady Margery. He did not expect him back until evening.

As she headed back toward Stonegate, trying to decide how she might best use what was left of the afternoon, she was surprised to find the dean striding toward her. That was not a good sign; Lady Margery’s dinners usually lasted through the afternoon. Kate hailed him. “I came to tell you I’ve changed my mind about sending Sam to Beverley.”

“Too late, Katherine. Your servant came for the letter of introduction this morning. He hoped to be on the road before the storm.”

“But I had told him–” Kate closed her eyes against the self-blame. How could she know Sam would suddenly decide to go against her wishes? But it was disturbing news. “How did he seem to you? Anxious?”

“I do not know him well enough to say. Do you not trust him?”

“I told him to wait until the snow passed. He’s not a young man.”

“He is not an old man.” Richard Clifford put his gloved hands on Kate’s shoulders and gave her a long look. “You carry such a weight, Katherine. I pray you, let me help. Tell me what I can do.”

She nodded, knowing she could trust him. Perhaps in telling him all that was on her mind, she would see the way forward. “Come. Let us take shelter for a moment in St. Michael’s.” Once settled on a bench set beneath a window in the corner of the nave, she recounted the incident with Sam.

“Who do you think followed him?” the dean asked.

“Whoever murdered William’s guest? Or perhaps it was merely someone who hoped to follow him into the house and steal the pewter plates. The cloak was old, the wool threadbare in places, much of the fur matted. It had been fine at one time. A servant wearing his master’s old clothes? A thief, as Jocasta Sharp assumed? Someone disguised as lesser than he is?”