A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Your friend, the king’s man,’ said Stephen, ‘Chaucer? Noticed him idling round Poole’s house. Wandered on off when he saw me watching him. What’s his business with Poole?’

‘I wish I knew. He seems far too interested in him.’

‘Ah. Then I apologize, for I followed him and asked that he take my place watching Poole’s.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘Alfred warned me that the more time I spent in your service, the more I’d conjure problems everywhere, and spend my nights trying to solve them. There’s something odd about Poole, and his taking the house beside the Tirwhits, moving his good mother from her home of many years to that large, drafty place.’

Owen had not placed someone at Poole’s or Tirwhit’s homes for the day. An oversight he’d suddenly regretted. ‘And did Chaucer agree?’

‘He did. And showed me he is armed. A surprisingly good piece of steel, that dagger of his.’

‘Well done.’ Who better to watch Poole than the man with such a keen interest in him?

Grinning with pride, Stephen nodded toward the Braithwaite yard. ‘Polishing up the stones for the guests?’

A serving man was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the pavement where the dog had sat the previous day. ‘They had a dog chained there yesterday,’ said Owen. ‘I wager they ignored it and the poor beast was made to sit in its own piss and shit.’

Stephen laughed. But Owen was troubled, not really believing Paul and Galbot would have neglected Tempest.

‘Walk round the house, then stand guard here,’ said Owen.

‘As you wish, Captain.’

As Owen reached the spot he was glad Stephen had not taken him up on the wager. He smelled blood, not a dog’s droppings. Indeed, the water in the servant’s bucket was stained red.

‘What has happened here?’

The servant started, so intent had he been on his work. ‘Oh, Captain Archer! It’s Master Paul’s dog, Tempest. We came out this morning to find him lying here in his own blood, his throat slit, poor beast. And nobody heard a thing. Not a thing.’ The man wiped his forehead, leaving a watery red smear. ‘Master John will be glad to see you.’

A dog trained to bark when a stranger approached, slaughtered while the household slept. Discovered hours earlier. And no one had come for Owen, the man they had retained to investigate the murders of the Swanns? He rose to find John Braithwaite standing in the doorway, his jacket unbuttoned, gray hair wild as if he had been raking his hands through it. A corpulent man of average height, Braithwaite depended on elegant dress and a haughty manner to impress. But this morning he was merely a fat man wishing he were anywhere but where he was, dealing with a dead dog and the burial of his friend and his son-in-law.

‘Captain Archer. I was glad to hear Janet had engaged you. This tragedy–’ He closed his eyes and crossed himself.

Owen expressed his condolences, then asked to see the dog.

Braithwaite shook his head. ‘We must hie to the Swanns and bear the coffins to the church, Captain. You’ve no time–’

‘I might at least see whether your intruder was skilled with a knife.’ Or I might gain nothing from it but the pain of witnessing a man’s brutal use of a creature bred to do his bidding, Owen thought.

With a shrug, Braithwaite ordered the servant to leave his scrubbing and show Owen the corpse.

‘Then escort the captain to my parlor.’ As John Braithwaite withdrew, he called out to a servant to bring wine and food, then told him not to bother, he would fast until the service.

‘I could use some wine,’ said Owen.

Braithwaite nodded. ‘Bring wine and food.’

Owen followed his guide back along the side of the house to a shed behind the kitchen. Someone had arranged the dog’s limbs so that he seemed at rest on his side atop an old cushion. Paul Braithwaite or Galbot? It was a clean cut, no more, no less than needed for a quick kill. Tempest’s slayer was likely the same man who had slit the throat of Hoban Swann.

‘Who laid him out?’ he asked the servant.

‘Galbot the trainer.’

‘Where might I find him?’

‘Went off to drink himself into forgetfulness, he said. Some don’t expect him back.’

As Owen followed the servant back into the hall he noticed Paul talking quietly to his mother and his wife, Elaine, all three dressed for show, though in muted colors. It might be a family occasion, but they were all aware the funeral procession would be observed.

In his parlor, John Braithwaite lifted his head from a contemplation of the floor and rose to greet Owen.

‘Is it true?’ Owen asked. ‘The servants found the dog first thing this morning?’

Braithwaite began to rake both hands through his hair, then self-consciously lowered them, folding them on his lap with a moan. ‘I could not believe it. Have we not suffered enough?’

‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘Ah. I thought … So you think the same as murdered the Swanns killed the dog?’

‘I think it likely. You said you were glad your wife came to me. But you’ve decided not to engage me?’