Rest Not in Peace by Mel Starr

Roger asked.
    I explained the matter to him, and repeated that the theft seemed a part of a greater felony.
    “Sir Henry’s death?” Sir Roger asked. A reasonable assumption, since the death was the most disquieting thing to happen under Lord Gilbert’s roof in many years.
    Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow rose higher, an astonishing feat. “How so?” he asked. “What could silver spoons have to do with Sir Henry’s murder?”
    There is a table in the solar where Lord Gilbert occasionally works at accounts, being unlike most nobles, who prefer to allow their stewards and bailiffs to keep the manorial ledgers. Of course, most of Lord Gilbert’s class cannot cipher well and so must leave the tallying of sums to folk like me and Lord Gilbert’s steward, Geoffrey Thirwall. This is perhaps why stewards and bailiffs have a reputationfor embezzling their employers’ funds. It is easy to do, and unless the manor should become insolvent, their theft is unlikely to be detected.
    I took the two pieces of linen, one pure white, the other stained with blood, and laid them side by side upon the table. Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger stood as I did so and approached to peer over my shoulder.
    “What is here?” Lord Gilbert asked. “We’ve seen the bloody cloth, but what of the other?”
    “See how they match?” I said. “This fragment, unless I am much mistaken, was used to mop away what blood came from Sir Henry’s ear when ’twas pierced. And the unspotted remainder was used to wrap Lord Gilbert’s stolen silver when it was returned not an hour past.”
    “Ah, then whoso took the silver also did murder,” Sir Roger said triumphantly. “Catch a thief and we’ll have the man who has slain Sir Henry, eh?”
    “Perhaps, but I think not.”
    “Oh?” Sir Roger seemed dismayed at my response. No doubt he wished the matter resolved so he might return to Oxford.
    “Would Lady Anne murder her father?” Lord Gilbert muttered.
    “Lady Anne?” the sheriff said. “What has she to do with this business?”
    “’Twas she,” Lord Gilbert said, “who made off with my silver.”
    Lady Petronilla had also risen from her chair and crossed the chamber to see the two pieces of linen. She spoke next.
    “Lady Anne seems most eager to leave Bampton and return home. The matter has arisen often when we are together, and she continually urges Lady Margery to be away.”
    “No wonder,” Sir Roger growled, “if she did murder and took silver spoons as well. I’ll take a sergeant an’ arrest her this minute. Where will she be? Where is her chamber?”
    “Not yet,” I said. “We might learn more of this if we allow Lady Anne to roam free. She may do or say something which, without this knowledge, we might overlook. With these scraps of linen we may have answers to questions not yet asked. If, in a few days, we discover nothing more, you may then arrest the lass. If she is guilty only of theft, then the murderer may reveal himself, perhaps to save her, especially if it is William Willoughby.”
    “William? The squire?” Lord Gilbert said. “You do then suspect him of murder?”
    “Sir Henry’s valet said that William and Lady Anne wished to marry, but Sir Henry would not permit it, being eager to see his daughter wed to some wealthy knight.”
    “To help fill his empty purse, no doubt,” Lord Gilbert said. “Though where he’d find coin for a dowry I cannot think.”
    “Are we then but to wait and watch for some man to do or say that which will incriminate him?” Sir Roger asked. The sheriff is a man of action. Patience is not his strong virtue.
    “Lady Margery knows I have discovered the bodkin,” I said. “She saw it in my hand yesterday. Whether or not she knows it might have been used to slay her husband we do not know. But I believe she does. When she saw it in my hand she took fright.
    “No one yet knows we have found this bloody linen, unless the man who hid it has searched to see if it is gone from the fireplace. It