Face Down In The Marrow-Bone Pie Part 7

"No. All agreed he was cup-shotten." Grimshaw seemed lost in his own dark speculations.

"He was trying to catch a serving wench called Edith," Susanna said calmly. "A girl fleet of foot and reluctant to share his bed. Because she was his intended victim, it seems likely to me that Edith is the one doing the haunting. Why should I accept your theory in place of mine own? What argues for this spirit to be a manifestation of Jane? Why not Edith?"

"Because Jane cursed Sir George as she lay dying," Grimshaw confessed in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"Were you there?"

"No, but . . . well, I heard it from one who was."

"Hearsay, then. Gossip. Rumor." She discounted all three with a wave of her hand. "Edith still seems a more likely candidate to me."

"But Lady Appleton, Edith cannot possibly be the ghost that haunts your house. Edith is alive and well and living right here in Manchester."

Chapter Thirteen.

To reach the burgage of Oliver Ince, Edith's husband, a plain, four room house, required a brisk walk to the shops near Salford Bridge, which spanned the river Irwell. As Grimshaw was a man of some prominence in Manchester, he was recognized at once, though not entirely with pleasure. Because she was in his company, Lady Appleton was grudgingly made welcome, too, but the announcement of her surname brought a deepening of what was already a distinct chill in the atmosphere of the house-room.

Oliver Ince was a butcher and fishmonger, a bluff, florid, barrel-chested fellow who put Susanna in mind of the queen's father, old Henry VIII, whose likeness she'd seen in portraits. "Appleton?" A sound that was very nearly a growl underscored his repet.i.tion of her name. "We want naught to do with any Appleton."

Susanna moved closer to the chimney corner. Made of both brick and stone, the fireplace was a mark of prosperity. At the back was a wide open hearth for cooking. A baby young enough to still be completely immobilized in swaddling clothes slept in a cradle near the hearth while a toddler clung to his mother's skirts. Edith Ince paid no attention to the child, her attention fixed on the visitors. Her lips trembled slightly and her hands twisted in the folds of her ap.r.o.n.

Susanna wondered why, for whatever else she might have done with her life since leaving Appleton Manor, Edith was not the one who'd gone back there to play at being a ghost. This was no frail wraith, but rather an apple of a woman, red-cheeked and almost as round as she was tall.

"What do you want with us?" Ince draped one protective arm over his much shorter wife's stiff shoulders.

"I have come to ask your help," Susanna told them.

Suspicion rolled back at her in waves. Distrust of the gentry, rightfully earned in this case, prevented these good people from taking her at her word.

Grimshaw, bl.u.s.tering a bit in the face of opposition, placed himself at Susanna's side. "You'd be well advised to a.s.sist Lady Appleton in any way you can," he warned Ince. "I am not without power in this place, nor am I ignorant of its laws. Casting carrion into the rivers is forbidden, and muckheaps are most strictly regulated here in Manchester. Moreover, there is talk of a new law, to require all the fish dealers in Smithy Door to fix their boards over the channel."

Ince made a low noise in his throat.

With a sigh, Susanna placed a restraining hand on the lawyer's velvet sleeve. Nothing would be gained by threats. She approached Edith Ince cautiously, a serious but not unfriendly expression on her face. "I have come to advise you, Mistress Ince, that your good name is at risk. It is being bandied about in the countryside that you are a spirit, a ghost that has come back to haunt Appleton Manor and cause the death of one that dwelt there."

Ince exploded forward. Putting his wife firmly behind him, he came at Grimshaw, his meaty hands extended as if he meant to grasp the lawyer by the throat and throttle him. Susanna had barely time enough to get out of his way. Startled, she called out Mark's name. He'd been told to wait in the street and was within the house an instant later, skidding a bit as his leather shoes came in contact with the broken-flagged floor.

The abrupt arrival of reinforcements stayed Ince's attack. He dropped his arms to his sides and darted suspicious glances from Mark to Grimshaw and back again. Even together, they'd have been hard-pressed to subdue the bigger man, but with a formidable glower, Ince retreated, his fists still clenched but his temper under control. He threw his head back as he moved away, staring up at the raftered ceiling as if to seek divine a.s.sistance in that effort.

After a moment, he visibly relaxed. All the anger seemed to drain out of him. "G.o.d will dispose," he said. "What is it you want of us, Lady Appleton?"

"Answers." She seated herself on the st.u.r.dy cus.h.i.+oned chair he offered her and considered which question to ask first. Grimshaw had become an annoyance. She had the distinct impression that she could get far more cooperation from the Inces if he were gone.

"I wish to interview Mabel Hussey tonight," she said, turning her head until she could fix Grimshaw with a commanding stare. "Go you, good Master Grimshaw, and fetch her to the inn in Withy Grove."

Grimshaw hesitated. Susanna suspected that he was regretting that he'd ever revealed Mabel's presence in Manchester. Before he could make any excuse, Susanna caught Mark's eye.

"See him out, Mark." She gave a peremptory wave of one hand, wryly aware that the gesture was reminiscent of Effie Denholm. Then she turned her back on them both, a.s.suming she would be obeyed.

Ince growled, his gaze flicking past Susanna to the departing men. She knew the minute that Grimshaw looked back. "I warn you, Ince. You will be a.s.sessed a heavy fine if you do not clean up that dungheap in the street." His parting shot delivered, Grimshaw left. Susanna heard the street door close behind him with a gentle thump.

Cautiously, Edith Ince and her husband relaxed, though neither was willing to sit down in the presence of a gentlewoman. Susanna had time to study the house-room more closely and found further marks of prosperity there. The Inces had two throne chairs, three chests, five bra.s.s candlesticks and one of pewter, and a great deal more pewter displayed upon a standing cupboard. Since it was close to the supper hour, dark brown bread, meat and onions had already been set out on a round table.

"What would you know?" Ince asked.

Susanna addressed her question to his wife. "Will you tell me about the night Sir George died? I know the memories must be painful for you, but it is important that I hear the story in your own words."

Edith Ince looked at her husband. Only after Oliver nodded his permission did she finally pull up a stool to sit upon and proceed to tell a tale that was much like the one Susanna had already heard from Effie Denholm. She did not once meet Susanna's eyes.

"So, you alone of all the servants remained at Appleton manor and Sir George made unwanted advances and you ran away?"

Edith nodded.

"Did you see him fall?"

"Nay."

"Hear a crash?"

"Nay."

"Then you have no certain knowledge of when he fell or why?"

"I were too afeared he'd catch me if I stopped running. I came all the way here to Manchester that night, I did."

"And it wasn't until the next day that you heard he was dead?"

Edith nodded.

"Did anyone question you about how it had happened?"

"Nay."

"I was told that John Bexwith knew you stayed behind at the manor. Did he never trouble you about it?"

"Nay."

"And you never came forward to tell the authorities what you knew?"

"I knew naught." For the first time, Edith looked directly at Susanna, alarm in her eyes.

Had there been a coroner's inquest? Susanna wondered. If Sir George's death was clearly an accident, she thought not.

"To speak out was to risk being blamed." Ince spoke quietly, and his point was all the more forceful for that. "Sir George tripped over his own feet and tumbled down the stair, and I'll be bound 'twas no great loss."

Oliver Ince still radiated anger. Suppressing it had colored his cheeks to a fiery red, and his hands were so tightly clenched that his knuckles showed dead white.

"Why did you attack Master Grimshaw just now?" Susanna asked him.

"Grimshaw found my Edith that post. I blame him for what happened after."

Susanna lifted one brow. The lawyer had not informed her of that little detail. "And John Bexwith? How did you feel about him?"

"He lied to Edith about what her duties would be. I do much blame him for putting her in danger." Ince scowled fiercely. "John Bexwith was a lecherous fellow, near as bad as old Sir George."

"Nay, husband. He never laid a hand on me."

Ince glowered at her.

"So, Bexwith was never . . . overfamiliar with you, Edith? Not by word, either?"

"He would have been," Ince answered for her. "If Sir George had not died when he did, he'd have had her first, as the master, then given her to his man."

Ince's blunt statement shocked Susanna, in spite of all she'd already heard about her late father-in-law. "You know this for a fact?"

"I know."

"But how? You have a prosperous business here, one of long standing. You would have been here, not at Appleton Manor, when Sir George died."

"'Tis true. Grave matters pressed me then. I'd failed to comply with an order to sell all my tallow to the common chandler at a fixed price, and for that great sin I'd had my shop door and windows closed. I was not allowed to follow my occupation as a butcher for more than a year, though I still had my spot in the fish shambles. Still, I did hear things after, and I knew my Edith. I loved her before she ever went to Appleton. If she'd married me, she'd never have gone there."

Edith placed a warning hand on his arm and he looked down at her with a deep and abiding love in his eyes.

Ince seemed forthcoming, and yet his very honesty kept him among Susanna's suspects as a new thought crossed her mind. What if Sir George's fall had not been the accident everyone supposed? Here was Ince, unable to work as a butcher, which presumedly meant he'd had more liberty to visit his intended bride. Had he gone to Appleton Manor and found more than he'd bargained for? Could Oliver Ince have discovered his betrothed in the very act of being ravished?

On the other hand, Edith herself might have acted to preserve her virtue. Had she lied about running away before Sir George fell?

Susanna wanted to ask those questions, but she sensed that directness would avail her nothing. Neither Oliver nor Edith was stupid. It would be too obvious that her continued interest in Sir George's death was leading to an accusation. They'd only lie if they were guilty. Attempting to be more subtle, she pursued another angle.

"Why did you take the post at Appleton Manor, Edith?" She wondered, suddenly, if Ince had always been p.r.o.ne to these sudden violent moments. Were they the reason Edith had hesitated to marry him?

"She went to Appleton Manor because she wanted to bring a dowry to our marriage." Once more Ince answered for his wife, but she was nodding her agreement to his words. "Sir George offered better pay than anyone here in Manchester. None of us thought to ask why until it were too late."

It would have been easier to suspect Ince had some part in Appleton's haunting if he'd been a candlemaker or sold lawn or other fine linen, Susanna thought. She wanted to exonerate Ince, could almost argue herself into it, except that his moods s.h.i.+fted too rapidly from calm to violent to allow her to rule him out entirely.

And then another possibility struck her. If John Bexwith had known that Sir George was pushed, or even guessed it, and that Ince had done it, then Ince might have decided to kill him also. What if Bexwith had been extorting money from the Inces? Might not Ince have grown tired of making payments?

She looked at the two of them, at their comfortable little house. Surely she was being fanciful. Even if any or all of those things had happened, they still did not explain this business of a ghost, nor did they tell her who had played the part for her benefit. In truth, calling attention to those stairs should have been the last thing a murderer would want. And yet, in all honesty, Susanna knew she could not afford to eliminate any suspect.

She left the Ince house in a troubled mind, collecting Mark from the street and announcing that she intended to return at once to the inn, there to meet Matthew Grimshaw and Appleton's erstwhile cook.

"Have a care for the swine," he warned, just in time to save her from being trampled by a herd of pigs, three of which were being left off in the yard behind Oliver Ince's house. "He is a farmer as well as butcher and fishmonger," Mark added, "and owns a mare. All the swine in Manchester are collected every morning and herded to Collyhurst, a mile or so to the north, for grazing, and this is the hour at which they return. Ince's other animals are kept out of town."

"What else have you learned while waiting here, Mark? And with whom did you strike up a conversation?"

Mark's cheeks colored as he fell into step beside his mistress. "You'll not tell Jennet?"

"I swear it." She could scarce hold back a smile at his sheepish expression.

"The daughter of the house next door is a la.s.s just turned fifteen. She spoke to me, madam," he said quickly, lest she think he'd been flirting. "It was none of my doing."

"But you did not bestir yourself to drive her away," Susanna teased him. "Very clever, Mark. It may prove to be no bad thing for us to have a friend in the house next to Edith Ince's."

Mark blinked at her, then slowly smiled, too.

"What else have you learned?"

"That tomorrow is the weekly market day. Traders come from as far as Rochdale and Warrington. We should be able to purchase everything you require to restock Appleton Manor."

"Everything? It is a considerable list. Plow animals-"

"Six oxen and two horses?" Mark interrupted as they pa.s.sed the vintner's.

"Yes. That is the best combination." She was pleased by his earnest efforts to help. "Did you notice, Mark? Have we both collars and yokes at the manor?"

"Aye. Only the animals are missing. I warrant that with trained teams and a good plowman, the fields can be plowed and harrowed in less than a week. Once the last clods are crumbled with a mattock, grain seed can be sown. You have already a goodly supply of straw baskets to sow from, and I reckon a rate of two bushels to the acre, but it is oats they plant here in the north, madam, not winter wheat."

"You have given this some considerable thought, Mark."

"Aye, madam. I did talk with Leigh Abbey's steward before we came north. He was most helpful with his suggestions. And I've asked questions here in Lancas.h.i.+re. 'Twas the girl told me about the oats. Temperance Strelley, her name is, madam."

Susanna was still pondering her servant's diligence. For the first time she realized that Mark saw this trip to Lancas.h.i.+re as an opportunity for advancement. She wondered what Jennet's opinion was of his obvious ambition to replace John Bexwith as Appleton Manor's steward. For herself, Susanna was not displeased by the idea. Mark was untried, it was true, but he'd always been quick to learn and he was, unquestionably, loyal to her. In fact, she thought she might just send him alone to the shops along Smithy Door on the morrow. Who knew what other interesting bits of gossip he might hear?

"What further livestock do you suggest?" she asked as they continued their journey toward the inn. They were just pa.s.sing the elaborate ornamental conduit that distinguished Manchester's Marketstead Lane. Water tapped at the conduit head traveled through a pipeline from a nearby spring, she supposed, and one whiff of the stench from the rivers that met at Manchester told her why that contrivance was necessary.

In the market square itself the toll booth, a town hall where the quarterly a.s.sizes met, dominated the other buildings. Prominently located nearby were all the trappings of the law, including stocks that were currently occupied by a scurvy fellow much befouled by the offerings of those who'd pa.s.sed by during the day. Susanna and Mark gave him a wide berth and avoided, too, the scattering of peddlers with smallwares who were trying to trade on the eve of market day and thus beat out their compet.i.tion.

"A few geese as well as chickens," Mark suggested when he had given her question due consideration. "One or two milch cows, but the rest to breed oxen. They can feed on gra.s.s, mistletoe and ivy. Pigs are slaughtered hereabout in November, after they've been fattened up on acorns, so I'd advise waiting to purchase a sow. Sheep, I think, would do well, but we'd be buying them less for the fleece than for their meat, milk, manure, and skin."

"The skins? Ah, yes, for writing material. You do seem to have thought of everything, Mark." She made a mental note to see what was to be found in the local mercers' shops. Along with lace and b.u.t.tons there were some who carried both paper and books. And medicines, she realized. She must also look into the availability of such items as a.r.s.enic and aqua fortis while she was trying to learn who had sold the dates, currants and sugar to Appleton Manor.

Mark's thoughts had wandered onto a different track. "You will require a dairy maid, madam, as well as someone to be responsible for the poultry. And perhaps a maid to look after the fire in the manor house."

"Three pretty girls?" He blushed at her teasing and she took pity on him and changed the subject. "And what shall we burn, Mark? I am heartily sick of the smell of peat."

"There is firewood, for a price, and coal, and they do burn gorse hereabout, and bundles of brushwood, too. They call f.a.ggots kidds and peat is turves."

"This neighbor girl-Temperance Strelley, did you say?-must have been a veritable fountain of information."

Mark's face colored once again but he said nothing.

"You might do well to mention to Jennet just how helpful Temperance was," Susanna suggested, "and if she was also an attractive girl, why say so."