The Midwife's Tale(82)

“Did a constable just take a young man inside?”

“Aye. The captain said to let them in.”

“Lieutenant, I need to go in there,” I said.

“My lady…,” he started. “I am under strict orders from my captain.”

“And I have my orders from the Lord Mayor of the city.” Eventually someone might challenge this claim, but until that time I would continue with my bluff. “It is urgent that I find Mr. Penrose.”

“My lady, I cannot.”

“Listen—I will go in alone, and if he is not here, I will leave immediately. Nobody will even know I was here.” He clearly did not relish saying “no” to a gentlewoman and stood there without speaking. Taking his silence as permission, I darted past him. He sputtered briefly, but I knew he would never dream of laying hands on me. By the time he found his voice—I heard him shouting, “My lady!” behind me—I had made it through the door and pulled it shut behind me.

The rooms downstairs were unnaturally quiet. Most of the stools were tipped on their sides. A cloud of flies buzzed around the plates of uneaten food, and tankards half-full of ale sat on the rough wood tables. A shiver ran up my spine—something awful had happened here. I heard footsteps and voices from above and climbed the stairs. When I reached the top I found myself at the midpoint of a long hallway, with curtained doorways on each side leading into small rooms. I peered through the nearest door and saw a sad and skinny whore asleep on an undersized bed. Down the hall, a small group of men stood outside one of the other rooms. As I approached, I saw Richard Baker standing among them. Under the bruises he had received from his master, Richard’s face was deathly pale, and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to flee the premises. As I neared the group, my stomach lurched as Lorenzo Bacca stepped out of the room. When he saw me, a slight smile touched his lips and he inclined his head in greeting. I did not think anyone else noticed. Immediately behind Bacca came a tall, well-dressed man who looked at me in surprise.

“Why, Lady Bridget, what a pleasure! York feels so small sometimes.”

He was Henry Thompson, one of the city’s Aldermen and Edward’s good friend. I had known Henry for years and respected his intelligence and dedication to the city. He had inherited a fortune from his father and continued to build it as the city’s most prominent wine merchant. Henry was the same age as Edward—indeed, the two had grown up together—and like Edward, he was possessed of sufficient wealth and power to give him the authority of a much older man. “I can’t imagine what brings you to the Black Swan,” he continued, “but it cannot be the unfortunate business that called me to the scene. You should go.” He took me gently by the arm and tried to guide me back toward the stairs.

“Mr. Thompson, I am here—”

“On the Lord Mayor’s business?” he asked with a small smile. “Yes, Mr. Bacca told me all about your investigation. He and I have no doubt you will find your culprit. But this matter is unrelated, and you really must leave.”

“Tell me what has happened. Please.”

“Nothing of interest to you,” he said firmly. “One of the whores murdered a client, that is all. She fled, but we will find her soon enough.”

“Who was killed?” I persisted. “Is it Thomas Penrose?” He stopped short and turned to look at me with renewed interest. I knew I was right.

“And why might you think that?” he asked.

“I know he frequents the Black Swan, and I can’t think of any other reason you would have brought his apprentice to a murder scene.”

“Ah, it is interesting you should mention the apprentice. He says that you came to Mr. Penrose’s shop on Saturday looking for him. Why?”

If Richard had said that much, he surely told Henry that I had asked about the sale of ratsbane. I saw no point in hiding the truth. “I believe that he sold the ratsbane to whoever killed Stephen Cooper.”

“What evidence do you have of that?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. At least I’d gotten his full attention.

“The bottle found in Esther Cooper’s wardrobe matches the ones used in Thomas Penrose’s shop. His apprentice hasn’t sold any ratsbane, which left only Penrose.”

“And you thought Mr. Penrose might be able to tell you who bought the ratsbane and thus who murdered the unfortunate Mr. Cooper.” I nodded. “What if he told you that he sold it to Esther? Where would that leave your investigation?”

“Then we would know the truth. But now Mr. Penrose is dead, and unable to help me find the truth.”