16 - The Three Kings of Cologne, page 26
part #16 of Roger the Chapman Series
Richard and I had been allotted a handsome chamber at the front of the house with a wide, comfortable bed for our slumbers. We were both dog-tired and wasted no time in idle chatter, simply stripping off our clothes and tumbling between the sheets with no other conversation than the mutually expressed hope that the other didn’t snore. But we were both asleep within minutes. At least, I know I was.
My rest, however, was disturbed by dreams. Most had no shape or sequence, being merely a muddle of things that had happened to me over the past few weeks. But then, suddenly, the general confusion resolved itself into a scene where I was standing above the great gorge, on the very edge of Saint Vincent’s rocks, teetering on the brink and striving to keep my balance. I could see no one, hear nothing – all around me was an eerie silence, devoid even of birdsong – but uneasily aware that I was not alone. Then, with a clarity that made me start, the hermit’s voice said in my ear, ‘Red stockings! I ask you! With that gown!’
I plunged forward, but not into the treacherous water of the River Avon far below me. As is the fashion with dreams, the scene had changed abruptly to the ruined Linkinhorne house, and I was falling from the smoke-blackened stairs into the riot of vegetation forcing its way up towards the expanse of sky visible through the long-since vanished roof. The iron, copper-banded chest lay on its side on the ground, the contents already spilling out without any help from me or my cudgel. Hercules appeared and I could see that he was barking frantically, except that he was making no sound …
I was sitting up in bed, sweat pouring from my body, every nerve jangling, peering through the darkness of an unfamiliar room. Beside me, Richard Manifold slept peacefully, his steady breathing punctuated every now and then with a sort of gurgling snore. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and still the ragged beating of my heart before lying down again, staring up at the embroidered underside of the bed canopy, with its dimly seen pattern of fabulous beasts prowling through an exotic wilderness of flowers.
Of course! Of course, I thought. I was sure now who had murdered Isabella Linkinhorne. Well, almost. There might still be a doubt.
All the same, ‘Thank You, Lord,’ I whispered into the darkness.
With the early start we had promised ourselves, and with refreshed and reinvigorated steeds, Richard and I reached Bristol in time for dinner the following morning. I left my companion to return our horses to the livery stables and to seek out Mayor Foster to report the success of our mission, and went home to find Adela.
She was, as she always seemed to be, in the kitchen, struggling with a recalcitrant fire that appeared reluctant to burn to heat the pot of stew hanging from the hook of the trivet. (Being Friday, there was more than a whiff of fish in the air.) The hornbooks and styli of the two elder children lay abandoned at one end of the scrubbed wooden table, where my wife had been teaching them their lessons, while Adam had obviously worn himself out because he was curled up on Hercules’s flea-infested straw bed fast asleep. Women, I reflected, not for the first time, were the losers in the game of life; the thankless drudges who smoothed the paths of their men. With a sudden access of guilt, I swung her round and kissed her soundly.
‘Roger! You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.’ Adela took my face between her hands and studied it closely. ‘Something’s happened. You’re looking cheerful,’ she commented shrewdly.
I squeezed her waist until she could hardly breathe and kissed her again.
‘I believe I know who murdered Isabella Linkinhorne,’ I said.
Her eyes widened. ‘Who?’ she demanded eagerly. Then a worried frown creased her brow. ‘Not … not Richard?’ she stammered.
I slackened my hold. ‘Would that matter to you?’
Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘Of course it would. It would matter to me if it were anyone I knew.’
I renewed my grip on her, smiling apologetically.
‘A foolish question. No, sweetheart, it’s not Richard, but –’ I pressed a finger to her lips – ‘don’t ask me yet for a name. I have to convince myself first that I’m right. There are questions I must ask – or, rather, ask again in order to confirm the answers. But I promise you that today or tomorrow should see an end to this business.’
She was content with that assurance. Adela was never a woman to demand explanations beyond those I was willing to give.
‘You must be tired,’ was all she said now. ‘Come and sit down and eat your dinner.’
As soon as the meal was over – during which my two elder children had forcibly expressed their disgust that I had returned home without bringing them each a gift – I set out at once for Steep Street, Hercules trotting at my heels. I was again particularly careful to make obeisance before the statue of the Virgin, set in the garden wall of the Carmelite Friary, in case Our Blessed Lady had been the source of the information now in my possession. One can never be too careful in placating the hierarchy of Heaven.
Hercules and I reached the top of the street to find that the site of the old graveyard had at last been cleared and that only Hob Jarrett was still working there, loading a few remaining stones and trails of bramble into the cart, where it stood, together with the patient donkey, at the edge of the track.
‘Finished at last, then,’ I remarked affably.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hob demanded, regarding me belligerently from beneath the thick eyebrows that formed an almost straight line across his broken nose.
‘Just an observation. No insult intended.’
He snorted in disbelief. ‘What d’you want?’
‘You were the man who found Isabella Linkinhorne’s body four weeks ago.’
‘Four weeks ago come next Thursday,’ he agreed, his manner thawing a little. ‘Why?’
‘When the body was first exposed, there was a strip of material, some remnant of what she had been wearing, in the grave with her.’
Hob nodded. ‘That’s right. Green stuff, silk or velvet maybe. It crumbled into dust so fast I didn’t properly see. And there was a shoe.’ He shuddered. ‘And some strands of hair sticking to the scalp. Black hair. Gave me a turn, I can tell you.’
‘There was the jewellery, too,’ I reminded him, but he saw fit to take exception to this remark.
‘What are you implying?’ He thrust out his underlip.
‘Nothing, on my life! You’re very touchy today.’
‘Ah, well …’ He shrugged. ‘My goody’s ill, the children need new shoes, and you never know, when one job ends, when the next will come along. Still, I s’pose I can always go back to tenting.’
I thanked him for his help, at which he looked surprised and muttered something that I didn’t quite catch before stooping and heaving another stone into the cart. Meantime, I started back down the hill, detaching Hercules from his interested snuffling around the donkey’s hooves and before that long-suffering animal could retaliate with a hearty kick. The dog looked up at me enquiringly.
‘We’re going for a long walk,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to visit our old friend, the hermit at the great gorge. Try not to upset him this time.’
The morning had turned warm and drowsy, as May days sometimes do, and as we climbed free of the city and the houses that scrambled up the hillside beyond its walls, both Hercules and I slackened our pace somewhat, stopping every now and then to exchange greetings with fellow travellers on the road. There was little news to be gleaned, although a fellow pedlar, who had made his way from London by a circuitous route, said that the Duke of Gloucester had been in the capital recently and that, if rumour were true, there was likely to be war with the Scots before the summer was out. This information chimed with what I had witnessed in Gloucester and what Juliette Gerrish had told me, but I hurriedly put the thought of her out of my mind (or tried to) and proceeded on my way.
As we approached the edge of the gorge and the narrow path leading to the hermitage, I picked up Hercules and settled him firmly beneath my left arm. The chapel of Saint Vincent brooded silently on its cliff top, and the descent to the river below looked even more perilous than it had done last night in my dream.
The hermit was at home, having just returned, if the basket of berries and leaves was anything to judge by, from his daily forage for food. He was as little pleased to see me as on the previous occasion, but seemed resigned, this time, to the presence of the dog.
‘You again,’ he grunted. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s not our day for being welcome,’ I informed Hercules. ‘Is it that we smell, do you think?’
‘It could be that you’re simply a nuisance,’ the hermit suggested sourly, probably aware that he smelled a good deal worse than we did. Not that he would regard it. Men of God were not supposed to waste their time with washing. ‘So? Why have you come to see me? If it’s about Isabella Linkinhorne again …’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘There’s something I need to ask you. Something I need to get clear.’
‘And what’s that then?’
‘You told me, when I was last here, that you saw Isabella the day she disappeared, riding along the village street. It was a wet and windy day – everyone I’ve spoken to agrees on that – and the wind blew back her cloak and also whipped up her skirt, revealing her legs …’
‘That’s right,’ he interrupted. ‘In red silk stockings and green garters.’ He gave a fastidious shudder which didn’t deceive me for an instant. This man, I was ready to swear, had always had a prurient interest in women, their bodies and what they wore beneath their gowns. After twenty years, that sighting of Isabella was as fresh in his memory as if it had happened yesterday.
Which was fortunate for me.
‘So you told me the other day,’ I said. ‘You also added, “With that gown!” Now why did you say that?’
‘Because she was wearing a purple gown, that’s why. Red stockings and green garters with purple! An unhappy choice of colours, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
I grimaced. ‘I don’t think it would have occurred to me. However, the lady in question probably would have agreed with you. Her former maid remembers that Isabella had snagged her stockings on a chair in the parlour and was very annoyed that the only other pair she had ready to put on were red ones. Perhaps she, like you, Master Hermit, had a nice eye for colour.’ If he sensed the sarcasm in my tone, he didn’t respond. I continued, soothing Hercules, who was beginning to get restless. ‘I also seem to recollect your saying that you saw Isabella around mid-afternoon. Are you certain that she was just setting out? At that time of day – and on such a day – could she not have been returning home?’
The hermit, who had automatically opened his mouth to refute whatever I had to say, shut it again, a suddenly arrested expression on his thin, ascetic-looking face.
‘Returning home,’ he repeated. ‘Well, now you come to mention it … Ye-es, I suppose she could have been.’
‘Which way along the village street was she riding?’ I asked, leaning forward in my urgency and squashing Hercules against my side. He let out an indignant bark. I hushed him impatiently.
The hermit furrowed his brow.
‘In the direction of the open downs or towards her father’s house?’ My heart was thumping, willing him to give me the answer I wanted.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly – a long, shining thread that might snap at any moment, once more leaving me floundering – before my companion reluctantly acknowledged, ‘Now I come to picture it again in my mind … Yes, I believe you might be right. Yes … Yes …’ There was another protracted pause, but, finally, the hermit gave a decisive nod of his head. ‘She was riding home.’
‘You’re sure of that? You’re certain?’
‘Positive.’ He regarded me with sudden respect. ‘Funny, but I’ve never given it a thought before. Not once in all these years. It just stuck in my mind that she was going for one of her madcap gallops across the downs. I should have realized, of course, that at that time of year the days were short and when I saw her it was already growing dusk. And then, as now, the downlands were a haunt for robbers and poachers and all manner of other rogues after dark.’
I let out my pent-up breath in a gasping sigh and thanked him far more profusely than the circumstances warranted. He eyed me suspiciously, trying to work out what he had said that had pleased me so much, and whether or not he had unintentionally incriminated himself.
I gave him what I trusted was a beaming, reassuring smile, once more expressed my thanks and, to his and Hercules’s relief, took my leave.
Hercules was delighted to find himself once more back in the ruined house, a happy hunting ground which he set out to re-explore, bounding up and down the shattered staircase, leaping from one dangerous tread to the other just to show me that he could. But when he realized that I was looking for something among the clumps of purple loosestrife and general vegetation, he abandoned his own games to help me search.
I had a rough recollection of where I had found the chest two weeks ago, and made my way towards an eyeless window set high in the ground floor wall. And there it was, just underneath, the lock that I had broken with my cudgel hanging drunkenly from the iron-bound lid. The dog capered around me, barking excitedly.
‘Hush!’ I ordered him.
The lid creaked in protest as I lifted it for the second time and peered inside.
The contents were exactly the same: two undershifts, a pair of brown leather shoes and a gown of moth-eaten purple wool. It must, in days long gone, have contained much more in the way of a young girl’s finery, but over the years since Isabella’s death, it had gradually been reduced to these few articles, the other things either given away or taken by housemaids who knew where the key to the chest was kept, and who considered it a crying shame to let rot garments that they could put to better use …
A sudden, unnerving thought struck me. I had made an unwarranted assumption that the chest and its contents had once belonged to Isabella. But suppose it had been the property of her mother, Amorette Linkinhorne. What then?
With hands that shook slightly, I pulled out the fur-trimmed gown and held it up to the light. It was cut on very slender lines, a young woman’s garment, not that of an elderly matron, and it was woollen – a gown for cold weather. Moreover, it was purple and the skirt had been darned as well as patched. It had to be the same dress that both the hermit and Robert Moresby had seen Isabella wearing that day; the day of her disappearance.
The sun, on its passage across the sky, suddenly shone full through the empty window, showing up a dark stain near the neck of the dress. I drew a sharp, hissing breath that caused Hercules to stop barking and look at me enquiringly, head cocked to one side. I examined the stain more closely.
It was difficult to be sure after twenty years, but there was a rusty tinge to it even now.
I felt certain it had been made by blood.
Twenty
‘You killed her,’ I said. ‘You or your wife. Isabella came home that day, soaking wet from her long gallop across the downs, hours spent in the wind and rain, so the first thing she did was to change her gown. She took off the old patched and darned purple dress she used for riding and changed it for one of green silk or velvet. After that … Well, only you, Master Linkinhorne, can tell me what happened next.’
It was the following day. I had waited until after dinner before setting out for the Gaunts’ Hospital, in order to make certain that its inmates would be up and about, and that the early morning round of the apothecary and the almoner would be over. I had spent an uneasy night, my – and Adela’s – rest periodically broken by the need to review the facts in my mind and reassure myself that my conclusion was the correct one. Adela, as always a source of comfort, did her best to convince me that, with the evidence at my disposal, I had reached the right conclusion.
‘It has to be Jonathan or Amorette Linkinhorne. But will you be able to make him admit it? Master Linkinhorne has only to deny everything, and to maintain that denial, to make matters awkward. Both the Clifton hermit and Master Moresby would have to be called on for their testimony, and I doubt if either would be prepared to swear to what they’ve told you. Not after all these years and not against a man of eighty-five summers who’s old and frail. If Mayor Foster is hoping for a plain, straightforward conviction, based on irrefutable evidence, he will be disappointed.’
I could do nothing but agree with her: Adela’s assessment of the situation chimed so exactly with my own. But my instinct was to be defensive, too. What could John Foster reasonably expect after a score of years? I had done better than anyone had a right to anticipate after such a length of time.
Adela had soothed me in the same gentle tone of voice she used to smooth away the children’s troubles. And it had occurred to me, as it had done more than once or twice before, to wonder if she saw me as the eldest and perhaps the most troublesome of those children. As ever, I put the thought from me and allowed myself to be lulled to sleep eventually in her loving arms.
We had the remainder of yesterday’s fish stew for dinner and, when I protested, my wife reminded me that, after today, the rest of Mayor Foster’s money must be returned to him.
‘And until you get back on the road again, Roger, we have very little left of our own.’
So it was with mixed feelings that, after dinner, I walked out of the Frome Gate and along the Backs to the hospital, set against the cloud of apple blossom that was, at present, its orchard. The cooing of the pigeons from the pigeon loft sounded loudly on the soft morning air.
Before I could state my business to anyone in authority, however, I was waylaid by that ever vigilant pair, Miles Huckbody and Henry Dando.
‘Saw you coming,’ announced the latter triumphantly, his rheumy blue eyes screwed up against the sunlight shafting in through the open doorway behind me.
