The Witch Hunter's Tale(38)

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I have you thrown into the street, you whore.” Her dress was made from the richest silk and cut in the latest fashion, but her voice shouted of the northern moors. I doubted if she’d seen a paved road before she came to York. Where had the Lord Mayor found such a girl, and what must she make of her new life?

Such coarse language from so gorgeous a creature left me speechless, but as so often happened, Martha came to my rescue.

“George Breary,” she said.

Agnes’s face twitched, and I knew that Martha’s shot had found its mark.

“I don’t know who that is,” Agnes said to Martha, though her eyes never left mine.

“Of course you do,” Martha replied, circling behind Agnes. She knew she’d found one crack in Agnes’s armor, and now she sought another. “You’ve been jumbling him for God knows how long. It’s the talk of all the town, or it will be soon enough.”

Agnes looked briefly in Martha’s direction before returning her eyes to me. A thin sheen of sweat had appeared on her forehead. Though she’d only been in the Lord Mayor’s house for a few months, she’d learned how to get her way. She could not understand why her fit of ill humor had not convinced us to leave her be.

“What do you want?” she asked at last. “Why are you here?”

“Last night George Breary was murdered,” I replied.

She didn’t even blink.

“What, no tears for your paramour?” I asked. “He was beaten and left to die in an alley, and you have nothing to say?”

“They brought the news last night,” she replied. “I knew he was dead before you did.”

“I doubt it.” I could tell that the scorn I felt for this girl had crept into my voice, and to put her on her heels I decided to give it free rein. “I doubt you know half so much as you think. You haven’t the slightest grasp of the world around you, or of what the future holds for light-skirted queans like you. If you did, you’d not play the harlot so thoughtlessly.”

“Not that you’ll be playing that role for long.” Martha continued as if we were one. “Your future holds naught but the hangman’s rope.”

Agnes’s eyes flashed in Martha’s direction again, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She did not answer.

“We don’t think you killed him yourself,” I said. “But surely a girl like you would have no trouble finding some fool to do it on your behalf.”

“But why would she bother, Lady Bridget?” asked Martha. “If he was a mere dalliance, he’d hardly be worth the trouble.”

“Ah, but what if he had fallen in love with her?” I said. “Tell me Agnes, was he trying to convince you to abandon your husband? Perhaps Mr. Breary threatened to tell him about your wanton ways, and you killed him to keep your secrets.”

“No!” The word burst from Agnes’s lips, and her regret was both immediate and clear.

“You’d have no trouble at all finding someone to commit murder,” I said. “If you made the right promises and lifted your skirts at just the right time, you could convince a man to do nearly anything. Was it one of your servants? A soldier from the garrison? Who did this for you?”

For a moment it seemed as if Agnes intended to answer, to confess that we were right, that she had arranged George’s murder. But without warning she broke my gaze and started for the door. Martha blocked her path. With no way out, she turned to face me.

“I’ll scream,” she said. “The servants will be here in moments.”

“Yes, they would,” I agreed. “And what would you tell them? That a gentlewoman detained you in your own house and accused you of murder?”

“Not even your gossips would believe such gabbing,” Martha said. “Then you’d be counted a foul slattern and a lunatic.”

Tears sprang to Agnes’s eyes. I imagine she hoped they would melt my heart, but they did no such thing. I had little doubt she kept tears at the ready in the way a sentry keeps his pistol charged. Where bluster and flirtation failed, weeping might find a way.

“I did nothing wrong,” she cried.

Martha barked with laughter.

“Nothing wrong?” I cried, joining in the derision. “You could not even remain faithful to your husband for half a year!”

“But I did not kill anyone,” she said.

“How does your husband feel about your shameless living?” Martha asked. “Surely he expected better of you.”

Agnes’s eyes became hard and, as if by impulse, she cradled her forearm.

Agnes cried out in surprise when I stepped toward her and pulled up her sleeve. I knew what I would find before I saw it: Bruises covered her arm from wrist to elbow.