Masques of Gold by Roberta Gellis Page A

ferret out those who committed crimes among the wealthy burghers and even the nobles who lived in the city. And Lissa knew that, and was not afraid at all. Did not that ease, that lack of fear of him, prove that she had nothing to hide? Nonsense! Justin brought his thoughts sharply to order. Lissa was hiding something; he had seen that almost at once.
    No hint of any answer to what she was hiding, or of any reason she should wish to be rid of her husband, came to Justin out of questioning Witta or Binge, who came in from the market soon after he was done with the boy. All Justin learned was that Witta hated Flael’s sons and adored his mistress. He would gladly have implicated young Peter and Edmond and told any lie to clear Lissa—only he did not know what lie to tell. Binge, on the other hand, resented Lissa and would have hurt her if she could, but the maid’s spite over having lost her preeminent place as manager of the household was obvious, and most of what she said only confirmed more surely, because it came from a hostile witness, what Lissa had told him earlier. Neither servant’s account conflicted with her story in any way that would give him an opening for further questions.
    It would have been very easy for Justin to account Lissa free of any suspicion; it would have been so easy that he trusted himself even less than he trusted her. Binge and Witta slept outside the house in the shed. Who could say what Lissa’s relationship to the sons had been? She was an apothecary’s daughter, and he believed she practiced the art herself. Perhaps Peter de Flael had slept far better after his second marriage than at any other time in his life. Perhaps he had slept well enough not to notice his wife leave his bed and enter another in the workshop. It would not be the first time a son had grown impatient with the length of his father’s life or envied his father the young morsel of flesh in his bed.
    Justin knew already that he would never prove or disprove that notion through the servants. Had Binge had the shadow of a hint of such a relationship or of any illness or weakness that had come over her master since his second marriage—which might indicate use of slow poison—she would have cried it aloud before he asked a question. The only way was to catch the wife and sons in some communication; then the truth could be squeezed out of them. How much would they trust each other if they had conspired together? Cynically Justin thought, Not much. So they would not allow too long a time to pass before one sent word to the other—perhaps a few days, perhaps a week, perhaps two.
    By the time Halsig and his men returned, Justin had decided to keep his suspicions to himself until he had heard what the brothers of Bartholomew’s Hospital had to say. Halsig’s report was no help. The men had discovered nothing of value. Unfortunately no neighbor on Goldsmith’s Row had noticed anything unusual during the night, when presumably Peter de Flael’s body had been dropped in his own doorway. One man, who had a house along the lane that connected Bread Street to Friday Street, reported that a cart had come out of an alley from the direction of the market—an unusual direction at that time of the morning—and turned right into Friday Street. The man claimed he had only heard the cart and had no idea who was in it, that he had not looked out because he was busy dressing and breaking his fast.
    â€œHe’s lying,” Halsig said. “He knew it was Flael’s sons driving the cart.” He shrugged. “No use pushing him. Once the cart came onto Friday Street it would be lost for good.”
    Justin nodded without complaint, knowing it was useless to berate Halsig or blame the men. He had had a slight hope that Flael’s sons would have believed they could best conceal where they were going by keeping to the back lanes and alleys. In that case, they might have been