A Fall of Shadows by Nancy Herriman

Author:Nancy Herriman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

CHAPTER 13

Bess eased wide the door to the chamber Ellyn borrowed. Curled on her side, she appeared to be asleep, but her eyes opened and she smiled weakly.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” said Bess. “I only wanted to know if you needed anything.”

“I am well, Mistress,” Ellyn answered. “The constable was here earlier today. Is not the matter of Bartholomew’s death resolved?”

“I have learned, Ellyn, that Constable Harwoode is not easily satisfied,” said Bess. “If you are well, I shall leave you to your sleep. I give you good night.”

Bess closed the door and retreated through the upstairs rooms, weariness bringing on a yawn. She had so much, too much, to fret over. Ellyn’s future plans and the resolution of Master Reade’s murder. The meaning of the poppet and its intended victim. Mother Fletcher’s safety, wherever she had gone. The safety of Bess’s family, the threat Laurence posed—where had he gone?—looming. During the daytime, she could put his letter and the message they had received from Joan’s friend out of her mind. But as evening approached, her fears crept nearer as well.

A steadying hand pressed to the staircase wall, Bess descended the winding steps. In the hall, the hearth fire crackled.

Dorothie slouched in Robert’s chair, which she had drawn as near to the hearth as she dared without risking that her skirt might be set alight by an errant spark.

“You should go to bed, Dorothie,” said Bess, crossing the room.

“You seek to tell me what I ought do?”

Why must she ever be so tetchy? “So be it. I merely thought you would be more comfortable abed than slumped upon the cushions of Robert’s chair.”

Dorothie exhaled and hauled herself to her feet. “I will leave on the morrow, Elizabeth. You are correct. I will be more content at my own home.”

“Give you good night, sister.”

“I pray I can sleep for all the troubles that attend my dreams.”

Bess watched her go and turned back to the hearth. She retrieved the poppet’s thorn from her pocket where she’d tucked it after supper. She tossed it into the flames, hoping the fire would consume it and its evil. However, Dorothie’s words returned to haunt Bess, and she could not toss them into the flames.

To think that the fellow’s illness was caused by the pricking of a thorn … almost like a poison.

Could Goodman Jellis have been the cottager Dorothie had remembered? If he was, as Bess’s sister had recalled the prior ill effects of a hawthorn spine, so might others in this village. However, to link his recent death to an earlier affliction brought on by a thorn seemed a most far-fetched idea. And an even more far-fetched means by which to commit murder. Yet …

A fist pounded on the front door. Joan rushed into the passageway from the kitchen and unlatched it.

“I need Widow Ellyott,” announced a young woman’s voice. She hiccuped upon a sob. “’Tis most urgent.”

“Joan, show her in,” called Bess.

The Merricks’ servant, the gaunt one, hurried into the room behind Joan.

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