Free The Twelfth Night Murder by Anne Rutherford Page B

went inside.
    The shop was close and very warm, well lit by a swarm of candles set in assorted sticks and dishes, as well as a good-sized brazier that stood on a large, wooden table. Behind the table piled with glass jars, wooden boxes, and books stacked on one another with pages open or marked with pieces of ribbon or paper stood Mistress La Tournelle. The scarf on her head was no longer present, which left her hair a wild mane of wiry gray, but otherwise she was dressed in the same outfit she’d worn three days before. She greeted Suzanne with a sincere smile and set aside the book she had in her hands.
    “Greetings, Mistress Thornton! So good to see you! Come!” She gestured to a chair near the end of the table where the brazier stood. “Come, sit. Let me bring you something to drink. Some wine? Chocolate, perhaps?”
    Suzanne adored chocolate drink. It was an expensive habit, but one she didn’t care to break. She noted Mistress La Tournelle’s generosity in offering it. “Thank you, I’d like some.”
    La Tournelle went to the next room for it, talking as she went. “I knew you would come to see me.”
    Of course she did. She was an astrologer; it was her business to know these things.
    The woman continued, “I hope you’ve avoided the river these past few days.”
    “As a matter of fact, I did not.”
    La Tournelle poked her face from the kitchen to read Suzanne’s expression, but learned nothing. “You didn’t? What happened, then?”
    “Your prediction came true. There was a death, and my life has been changed.”
    The old woman considered that a moment, then returned to the task of setting a pot of chocolate on the hearth to heat. Then she stepped into the doorway again and said, “You’re still alive.” She sounded surprised.
    “I am, indeed. However, someone else is not. A boy was found dead, floating in the river not far from Bank Side, and I have been recruited to investigate the murder. As a result, I’ve been forced to leave my work as an actress for a time and am now working for the benefit of Constable Pepper of Southwark.”
    La Tournelle appeared relieved. “Oh, good,” she breathed. “Nothing terrible has happened, then.”
    “I’m certain the dead boy would disagree with that assessment.”
    The old woman waved away the notion. “To you, I mean. Whenever I report something regarding someone who has not asked, I always have a dreadful feeling I may have caused whatever event follows that person. Some do accuse me of influencing their lives, and I would deny it, but even so I often have doubts in my heart.” She pressed her palms to her chest.
    Suzanne leaned forward in her chair and said, “Well, mistress, I might point out that I would rather be playing my roles onstage than to be poking around London after a man who would stab a boy, cut off his willie, and stuff it in his mouth.”
    “The boy didn’t drown?” La Tournelle seemed disappointed, and the horror of what Suzanne had just said seemed not to make a mark on her thoughts. She began to wonder whether the woman’s empathy were genuine, or manufactured.
    “He was murdered, then thrown into the river. They found him at the bank just downstream of the bridge, caught among some flotsam. It was a terrible thing.”
    “Oh yes. Terrible.” The old woman was suddenly reminded that her prediction had been about a soul who had once been living and now was not. She ducked back into the kitchen, and after some clinking of stoneware and clanking of pot, returned with a rough-hewn clay cup emitting steam from the top. “There you are,” she said, and shoved aside a stack of books to make room, then set the cup on the table where Suzanne could reach it.
    Suzanne picked up the cup to sip from it, and the chocolate was delicious. “This is delightful, Mistress La Tournelle.”
    “Oh, call me Esmeralda.”
    “I come as a client.”
    “Even so.”
    “Very well, Esmeralda, and you shall call me Suzanne.” She raised her cup