Face Down among the Winchester Geese by Kathy Lynn Emerson Read Free Book Online

thought she was looking at the dead woman come to life again.
    Of the same physical type, the stranger also shared Diane's dark hair and eyes. On closer inspection, however, Susanna saw that this woman had a much plainer face, and her clothing, though of similar quality to Diane's, was brightly colored. With another jolt, Susanna abruptly comprehended that the subject of her scrutiny was one of the neighborhood's whores.
    Fascinated, Susanna narrowed her eyes and stared harder. As if the woman sensed someone's intense interest and was made uncomfortable by it, she turned and walked swiftly away. Susanna watched her until she went into one of the houses, the one that bore the sign with the smock.
    The constable's earlier comment came back to her.
    He'd thought Diane was someone else at first. Someone named Petronella. Had that been she?
    "We are ready, Lady Appleton,” Fulke announced, bringing her attention back to Diane's body. Someone had found a dagswain blanket to wrap it in and a door for it to lie upon.
    She would prepare Diane's body for burial with her own hands, Susanna decided, and make arrangements for a proper interment in the parish churchyard. Then, if it lay within her power, she would do more.
    She would learn Diane's real surname, that a memorial brass might be inscribed with it. She would try to discover why Diane had been killed. And, if she could find a way to identify the killer, she would bring that person to justice, whoever he might be.
    Susanna's expression was grim as she left the alley to follow after the makeshift bier. She would have to begin her investigation by questioning her own husband. She did not look forward to the prospect.

Chapter 8
    The woman who called herself Petronella watched from an upper window as the little procession made its way along Maiden Lane. In the near distance she could just hear the commotion of the crowd beginning to gather to watch exhibitions of bear and bull baiting in the amphitheater in Paris Garden. The chief matches were held on Sundays and later, when spectators grew to be a thousand strong, shouts of “Now, bull!” and “Now, dog!” and “'Ware horns, ho!” would carry plainly to the Sign of the Smock.
    Petronella had gone to inspect the victim upon hearing her general description. This was the second small, black-haired woman she knew to have been murdered in Southwark. In both cases, the victim's neck had been broken.
    She shivered, well aware of their resemblance to herself. She knew, too, that to be murdered was not an uncommon fate for one in her profession. The patrons of this house were of a better sort than those who visited some other places at Bankside, but they were men, men who often consumed excessive amounts of drink, and for their coin they expected much. Too much, on occasion. All men reacted badly to being refused.
    How long ago had that other woman died? Petronella tried to remember. Before or after Easter? After, she was sure. In fact, she thought it had been just about a year ago when the whore who'd styled herself Ambrosia La Petite had been killed. She'd complained of feeling she was being watched for weeks before her death. Her friends had laughed at her. Certes, she was watched, they'd mocked. She'd be a failure in her profession if men did not look at her.
    In the last few days, though, Petronella had known that same sensation, a prickling at the nape of her neck at unexpected moments, the sense that malevolent eyes followed her. She tried to tell herself she was no common woman. Not now that the Sign of the Smock was hers. It had been left to her by her godmother three years earlier, and Petronella, even when she'd been plain Molly Bainbridge, had always been allowed to pick and choose her clients.
    The woman they'd just taken away had not been employed in any of the brothels hereabout. She had not been in the profession at all. Had she been killed by mistake? The possibility that Petronella herself had been the intended