16 - The Three Kings of Cologne, page 6
part #16 of Roger the Chapman Series
He was silent again, staring into space. Then, after a while, he buried his face in his hands.
‘Master Linkinhorne?’ I murmured, gently squeezing his shoulder, aware, as he apparently was not, that his conduct was beginning to attract attention. Nudges, winks and nods were being exchanged among the other old people nearby, who, although probably at least partially deaf, had nevertheless been taking a close interest in our conversation. My brief acquaintance with my companion had convinced me that he would hate to make himself conspicuous in any way, or be the subject of whispered speculation among his fellow inmates, all of whom, I felt sure, he deeply despised. He was that most pitiable of creatures; a man with more than his fair share of pride, fallen on hard times. I lowered my mouth to within an inch of his ear. ‘Master Linkinhorne, people are looking.’
He raised his head, sat up straight and gazed belligerently around him. There was an uneasy shuffling of feet, an awkward avoidance of glances before the others turned back to what they had previously been doing; playing board games, reading or simply chatting and bickering amongst themselves.
Jonathan Linkinhorne shrugged off my hand and reached for his beaker, forgetting that he had allowed me to empty it. When he did remember, he slammed it back on the table in disgust.
‘Let me fetch you some more,’ I offered guiltily, half-rising from my seat.
He shook his head.
‘You don’t understand, Master Chapman,’ he said fiercely. ‘When you live on charity, you don’t ask for more.’
‘I’m sure that if I explain …’
‘No!’
I sank back on to my stool. ‘Very well.’
‘In any case, I hate the stuff.’
‘So you said. But if you’re thirsty—’
‘For God’s sake, fellow, do as you’re told.’
Yes, I thought to myself, this is more like the man you once were before disaster and indignity blighted your life. I waited a few seconds to let reality sink in again, then asked neutrally (although I already knew part of the answer), ‘What happened after Isabella disappeared? Did you and your wife continue as you had before?’
Jonathan gave a snort of mirthless laughter.
‘Use your imagination, man! If, that is, you have any! How could we? Our one and only chick had gone. Flown the coop. Everything we had done and thought and said for twenty years had been for Isabella. Now there was no one. Nothing! Of course, for a while, for weeks, months, we half-expected that she would return, bringing her husband – that is, whichever of the three men she had finally chosen – with her. But when a year had passed and we had heard nothing from her, we began to suspect that she was never coming home.’
‘But surely,’ I persisted, ‘in the early days, you must have made some push to find her? You must have made enquiries?’
‘Of course we did! The day she failed to come back from riding, we sent to Emilia at her cottage and I went myself to my cousin at the nunnery, to discover if either of them had seen Isabella. If, by chance, she was with one of them. The following morning, we took the hands from their work and sent them to scour the countryside in case our daughter had met with an accident. We sent both girls to Clifton village to find out if anyone there had seen her since she rode out the previous morning. Lord Cobham was away from home – he often was – but Amorette and I visited the house and made enquiries of the housekeeper.’
‘Without result? No one had seen Isabella at all the day she vanished?’
‘Oh, people had seen her. There had been several sightings of her in the morning near Westbury village, in the company of a man. But nobody could say which one. At least, there seemed to be disagreement about his identity. It was a wet March day, cold and windy, and with a hint of sleet in the air. It seems that both Isabella and her companion, whoever he was, had the hoods of their cloaks pulled well forward, making it difficult to see their features distinctly.’
‘In that case, how were your informants certain that it was your daughter that they’d seen?’
‘They knew her by her cloak. It was dark blue, lined with scarlet wool.’
‘Ah … And did you find out how late in the day it was when Isabella was last observed?’
Jonathan Linkinhorne shook his head. I could tell by the shuttered expression on his face that suddenly he had had enough. He did not want to think or talk about the subject any more.
‘I’ve told you, Master!’ He slammed his open palm against the tabletop, again attracting the attention of his neighbours, but now past caring. ‘It’s too long ago. I’d like you to go.’
I had often seen this happen with older people: for a while they were bright and energetic, then, without warning, they wilted like flowers in the summer heat, overcome by fatigue. I patted his gnarled and brown-spotted hand.
‘I’m leaving,’ I said. ‘Just one more question. This nurse, this Emilia … Virgoe, did you say?’ He nodded. ‘Is she still alive?’ He nodded again. ‘Do you know where I can find her?’
‘That’s two questions,’ Jonathan reminded me, but answered all the same. ‘She has a cottage on Lord Cobham’s estate. Ask for her in Clifton village. Anyone will tell you where she lives.’ His gaze and voice sharpened, the milky blue eyes focusing on my face, almost as if he were seeing me properly for the first time since my arrival. ‘What do you want with Emilia? She can’t tell you any more than I have done. She’s over sixty now. Old people don’t want to be bothered cudgelling their brains to remember things long gone and best forgotten. It’s upsetting. And the plain truth is, Master Chapman, that Isabella’s been dead to me – and, I suspect, to Emilia – these many years. Finding her body hasn’t made her death any more real, except in the sense that now I know for certain, for a fact, that I’ll never set eyes on her again.’
He was lying. I could tell it by the tremor in his voice, which he strove valiantly to keep steady, and by the rogue tear that had escaped and was running down one cheek. But I could understand his reluctance to dwell, publicly at least, on the gruesome discovery of his daughter’s corpse. He must blame himself, and also feel that others blamed him, for not making more effort to trace her whereabouts twenty years ago. Had he done so, her true fate might have become known, with a far better chance of bringing the murderer to justice.
I rose to take my leave of him, but the sight of Miles Huckbody and Henry Dando loitering near the door made me pause and risk asking yet another question.
‘Master Linkinhorne,’ I ventured, ‘the jewellery your daughter was wearing – the rings, necklace and girdle by which your cousin was able to identify the body as Isabella’s – was it familiar to you?’
He shook his head.
‘No. Sergeant Manifold brought it to show me, but I’d never seen any of it before. Obviously,’ he added bitterly, ‘Jeanette – Sister Walburga – recognized it.’
‘Sister Walburga told me it was given to Isabella by one of her admirers, who was a goldsmith by trade.’
The old man gave vent to a sudden explosion of furious laughter.
‘Then my cousin knows far more than I do. Far more! You’d better go and talk to her again.’
I could see that he was trembling, his left hand jerking uncontrollably against the tabletop. Guilt consumed me. I leaned forward, once more pressing his shoulder.
‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Master Linkinhorne. Thank you for your time and patience.’
He made no reply. I’m not sure that he even heard me. I pushed past Miles Huckbody and Henry Dando without looking at them, resolutely ignoring their whispered questions and muttered indignation when I didn’t answer. Then I was out in the fresh air of the April afternoon, breathing pleasurably and deeply, but possessed by the uneasy reflection that one day I, too, would be old.
Five
I walked home through the April afternoon with a growing sense of unease; but by the time I approached the Frome Bridge I had managed to pinpoint at least three causes of my discomfort.
Firstly, I had never before used my talent to make money; never allowed my services to be hired. I had solved mysteries for many people, but always maintained my independence, supporting myself, Adela and the children by my efforts as a pedlar while sorting out those God-sent problems; problems which usually – I’m too modest to say always – resulted in some wrong-doer being brought to justice. Once, the Duke of Gloucester had sent money after me, but it had only supplemented what I had managed to earn for myself and, although undeniably welcome, it had not been vital to my or my family’s survival. Now, however, I had broken my golden rule and was living on John Foster’s bounty while I did my best to unravel the puzzle of who had killed Isabella Linkinhorne. I had established a precedent. And that worried me.
The second thing disturbing my peace of mind was something I suppose I had always secretly acknowledged, but considered it as yet too early in life to face up to: the difficulties, the clash of wills that inevitably arose between parents and children as they all grew older. Jonathan and Amorette Linkinhorne’s relationship with their daughter had plainly been an extreme one, but it demonstrated the depths of misunderstanding – indeed of total alienation – that could develop through selfishness and pride on the one hand, and deep-seated resentment and rebellion on the other. I knew that both Adela and I were unusual in our concerns for our offspring; that many people, including Margaret Walker, regarded us as lax preceptors because we spared the rod and, in their eyes, spoiled the child. I even worried about it myself, sometimes. And although I often, loudly and forcefully, expressed contrary views and made threats that I, and everyone else, knew I had no intention of carrying out, I doubted if Adela and I would ever reach such a state of wilful ignorance concerning our children’s doings as the Linkinhornes had with Isabella.
Finally, there was the thought of old age itself, provided either disease or disaster failed to carry me off before my allotted three score years and ten; the expectation of diminished eyesight, impaired hearing, creaking joints and incontinence. (And although the reality hasn’t proved to be quite as bad as I had anticipated, there is still the shock of waking up each morning and realizing that my tomorrows are numbered.)
So I crossed the Frome Bridge to the gateway feeling thoroughly despondent, glancing up at the great keep of the castle where it brooded over the town, hanging in the sun-threaded air like some fairy palace. Only it wasn’t a fairy palace, but rather a place of darkness and misery, suffering and despair. In stark contrast, from the chapel of Saint John-on-the-Arch floated the voices of children singing, a little ragged at the edges but with a heart-rending purity of sound, bringing hope and comfort and joy to everyone who heard them. The thin spring sunlight sent grey and silver shadows rippling across the surface of the water; and the small stone customs house that stood near the river reminded me of a pebble washed up by the tide.
Edgar Capgrave was still on duty at the gate, and still arguing, this time with the stream of homeward-bound visitors who were objecting to the toll on goods being taken out of the city.
‘I don’t make the laws, mother!’ he was bellowing at a deaf woman with a basket of goods weighing down her frail old arms. ‘Them’s Bristol goods for Bristol people you’m squirrelling away to your hidey-hole in the country. So course you’ve got to pay a toll! It’s only right and proper.’
‘I’m not your mother!’ the crone screeched in reply. ‘I just wish I were! You’d feel the weight of my fist! Such incivility to a poor, defenceless old woman!’
Once again, I left Edgar to it and went home for my supper – only to find myself faced with a domestic crisis.
‘The night-soil man hasn’t come today,’ was Adela’s greeting. ‘The privy’s full to overflowing. You’ll have to do something about it, Roger. We can’t have turds being trodden all over the yard.’
‘Turds!’ shouted Adam, beaming all over his bread-and-milk-spattered little face and waving his spoon at me.
Wonderful! Cleaning out the privy was just what I needed before tackling my rabbit stew. But it wasn’t the first time I’d had to do the night-soil man’s job for him. He seemed to be constantly going sick. Perhaps it was genuine. Either way, who could blame him?
When I’d finished – in the absence of the night-soil man’s horse and cart, transferring the privy contents to the street’s central drain – Adela shooed all three children upstairs while I sat naked in the old wooden tub in front of the kitchen fire and she poured pitchers of alternate cold and hot water into it until I was covered to my waist. Then she scrubbed my back, laughing and wrinkling her nose at the disgusting smell of the clothes I had dropped on the floor. One thing very nearly led to another, but the patter of feet up and down the stairs reminded us that it was far too early in the evening for any kind of dalliance. So Adela found me a clean shirt and my only other decent pair of hose and, when I had got out of the tub, set about soaking the offending garments in my bath water. While all this was going on, and I was rubbing myself dry on the piece of rough sheeting we kept for that purpose, I took the opportunity to tell her about my conversations with Sister Walburga and Jonathan Linkinhorne.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Adela said, as she laid the kitchen table with plates and spoons for supper, ‘is how Isabella’s body came to be buried in that plot of ground if, as everyone insists, it had never been used as a graveyard. Digging a grave, even a shallow one, can’t be easy. And that spot is near enough to both the nunnery and Saint Michael’s church that anyone doing so would surely have been bound to attract attention at some point in the proceedings. Even under cover of darkness, you’d think that someone would have seen or heard something at some time.’
She was right. I hadn’t until that moment thought of it myself, although no doubt I would have done so eventually. But then, there was much about the case that I hadn’t had occasion to consider as yet. All the same, I used it as an excuse to get my arm around her waist and tell her what a clever woman she was, while at the same time trying to insinuate one hand into the top of her skirt.
She gently pushed me away, a warning glint that I recognized in her fine dark eyes.
‘Don’t patronize me, Roger.’
I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Pax! Pax!’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m sorry.’
She accepted my apology with her usual good grace, and called the children down to supper. Elizabeth and Nicholas, ever hungry, stormed in and climbed on their stools, waiting impatiently for their bowls of stew to be passed to them. Adam, who had already been fed, was free to roam about the kitchen at will, but most unexpectedly chose to clamber on to my knees and lay his head against my chest. It made eating difficult, but when Adela offered to relieve me of my burden, I smiled and shook my head.
‘No. Let him be.’
She returned my smile, knowing, with that intuition wives develop, that I was thinking of those other parents whose understanding of their child and her needs had led eventually to total estrangement. And when, after ten minutes or so, Adam wriggled free of my embrace and trotted off about his own small affairs without any reproaches or efforts to detain him on my part, she smiled at me again, more lovingly than ever.
‘What will you do next?’ she asked.
I shrugged. ‘I can do nothing tomorrow, it being Sunday. But on Monday, I think I must walk to Clifton and try to find this Emilia Virgoe, Isabella’s nurse.’
But late that night, lying in my arms, content and drowsy after making love, Adela suddenly roused herself, raising her head from the pillow to ask, ‘How could any mother and father be so ignorant of what their child was doing? Who she was seeing? And surely when she disappeared like that, they should have bestirred themselves to make more enquiries than they did?’
I could tell from her tone of voice that she was worried, foreseeing, as I had done, a future when these problems might be ours, and frightened for the outcome. I tightened my hold on her.
‘We’re not the Linkinhornes,’ I reassured her. ‘We shan’t expect to command our children’s love, or feel slighted if they withhold it. Or at least not so that it shows. And we’d never let our resentment of their behaviour get in the way of doing what was right. If Elizabeth or Nicholas or Adam vanished without a word, we’d move heaven and earth to find out what had happened to him or her.’
‘Is that what you think it was, resentment?’
‘Oh, yes. I feel certain of it. Isabella had shut them out of her life, even flagrantly lying to them. And they must have known in their hearts that she was lying, even while pretending to themselves that they believed her. They’d given her everything, including more love and attention than one person could cope with. So when, as they thought, she left them without a word for the love of someone else, they only made a pretence of trying to find her. But I think the lack of effort must have preyed on Mistress Linkinhorne’s mind. A year after Isabella’s disappearance, she was dead. Drowned in the Avon.’
‘Suicide?’ Adela whispered.
‘Not officially. An accident; and maybe it was. But I can’t help wondering if remorse played any part in her death.’
‘Poor woman.’
Adela spoke so softly that I barely heard her, as a sudden squall of rain rattled the bedchamber shutters and wind moaned down Small Street between the overhanging eaves of the houses. I kissed her gently on the forehead.
‘Go to sleep,’ I murmured, ‘and stop worrying over matters you’ve no hope of mending. Our lives can never be that bad, not while we have each other.’
She settled her head contentedly once more against my shoulder, and I thought I caught a half-laughing, disjointed mutter about men and roving eyes and their general untrustworthiness, which I considered it best to ignore. I gave her another kiss, which was received with sufficient, if somewhat sleepy, passion to make me think of assaulting the citadel again, but tiredness won. Before the thought was even half-formed, I was (so Adela informed me the following day) snoring.
Sunday passed, as Sundays generally do, in a haze of churchgoing, reading of the Scriptures and boredom. There was no sign of John Foster at Saint Giles. It being the Sunday before his swearing-in as the city’s new Mayor, he would have gone in procession with his fellow aldermen and the out-going Mayor to Saint Mark’s chapel at the Gaunts’ Hospital, and I was relieved to be spared his anxious queries as to how my investigation was proceeding. (People always thought that facts just fell into my lap without any work on my part.) It continued raining all day, which meant that the children were housebound and forbidden to play games for fear of disturbing the Sabbath calm and the religious scruples of the neighbours. So I gathered the family around the kitchen table and told them the story of Noah and the flood; although I wondered afterwards, noting the look of rapt attention on Adam’s face, if it had been a wise choice. There was never any knowing what was going on in that devious little head of his.
