The Goldsmith's Daughter

Fourteen

‘And what happened then?’ my wife enquired, her face alight with interest and curiosity. ‘Did Christopher Babcary admit to the truth of Toby’s accusation?’

I had returned to the Voyager just as dusk was falling, and was now cosily ensconced in our little room in front of a glowing fire, which Reynold Makepeace had insisted be lit for Adela’s comfort, after what had proved to be a somewhat tiring day in the company of Jeanne Lamprey.

True to her promise, Jeanne, leaving Philip in charge of their shop, had taken my wife to see the wild animals in the Tower. But the walk from Cornhill, the cold, the noise, the crowds of people and the densely packed traffic of the streets, particularly around the Tower itself, had left Adela feeling, as she herself phrased it, ‘like a wrung-out dishcloth.’ She had arrived back at the inn sometime in the mid-afternoon, her exhausted appearance immediately exciting our host’s ready sympathy. He had sent one of the pot-boys scurrying to set a lighted taper to the wood and coals freshly laid on our hearth, while the cook despatched two kitchen maids to our bedchamber with hot broth and rosewater jelly.

I was now drinking a bowlful of the same broth, together with a large slice of good wheaten bread and a couple of collops of bacon, all washed down with Reynold’s best ale, glad to be free of the Babcarys’ house and what I felt to be the family’s growing hostility towards me. But Adela was anxious to know everything that had happened during the day, and so, between mouthfuls of food, I had regaled her with the facts. But when I reached the point of Toby’s revelation concerning Christopher Babcary and Ginèvre Napier, I had been forced to go through to the taproom in search of more ale. I had, however, barely seated myself once again in my chair before my wife, stretched out on the bed, her aching back propped against the pillows, compelled me to continue my story by answering her question.

I laid down my spoon. ‘Christopher denied it hotly at first, as you might imagine. But Toby was so persistent in declaring that what he had told us was correct, and Miles Babcary and I made it so obvious that we believed him — both of us having experience of the kind of woman preferred by Christopher — that, in the end, he grudgingly conceded it to be the truth. And finally, rather than allow me to question his sister again, he confessed that he had indeed boasted to Eleanor that he was in love with an older woman — although without naming her — and that he was certain that his love was returned. He had no idea at the time that his remark had been overheard by Gideon but when he learned how the other man had misinterpreted it, his one thought was to deny ever having said such a thing, and to persuade his sister to deny it, also.’

‘So much,’ Adela said, nodding sagely, ‘for Miles Babcary’s conviction that his niece was incapable of lying.’

I picked up my spoon again. ‘I have no doubt at all,’ I agreed, ‘that she is as capable of telling untruths as anyone else, when it suits her to do so. I’m quite certain that she is concealing something concerning herself and Gideon Bonifant, but what that something is, I’ve as yet no real inkling. I can only guess that she was in love with him and won’t own to it for her cousin’s sake.’

‘But do you think that Gideon was in love with her? Were they, in fact, lovers?’

I finished my broth and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

‘I should think it well nigh impossible in a house with so many people in it,’ I answered. ‘Besides, as far as I can gather, he showed no interest in her except as his wife’s cousin. The impression I’ve gleaned of Master Bonifant — although I admit it could be wrong — is of a cold, calculating man who probably married Isolda for no other reason than her dowry and the place in society that she could bring him. Had she not been so plain, she would most likely never have considered him as a husband, but he took advantage of her lack of suitors and her desire to be married to carve out for himself a comfortable niche in life. And I doubt that he would have jeopardised his position as Miles Babcary’s son-in-law by betraying Isolda with Eleanor.’

I could see that Adela was not wholly convinced. She said something about people like Gideon having hidden fire in their souls, a remark I instantly derided as far too fanciful and romantic to have been uttered by anyone as sensible as herself, and put it down to her condition (which, as all men know, makes women a little unbalanced).

Adela gave me one of her quizzical looks, accompanied by a small, secret smile that somehow made me feel like a foolish schoolboy. But all she said was, ‘What will you do next?’

‘Next, I must talk to Mistress Perle and the Napiers,’ I answered, adding guiltily, ‘Will you go to the Lampreys’ again tomorrow?’

My wife shook her head. ‘They’ve very kindly asked me to do so, but I’ve refused. A day spent here, in the inn, will do me more good. Besides, I’m sure Jeanne and Philip need a rest from my company. I’ll join them again the following day, if necessary.’

‘I’m afraid it will be necessary,’ I replied gloomily. ‘As yet, I’ve no idea what really happened that December afternoon, only the conviction that nothing was as straightforward or as simple as it seemed.’

‘You don’t believe, then, that Mistress Bonifant murdered her husband?’

‘Without proof that she really did have a lover, she appears to have had no motive for doing so.’

‘And you’ve decided that, if she did, Christopher Babcary wasn’t the man?’

I shrugged. ‘He denies it, Isolda denies it, although that, of course, is only what I should expect them to do. But you saw for yourself the woman he was with yesterday, on the quayside — a woman as unlike Mistress Bonifant as it is possible to imagine. Miles Babcary also tells me that his nephew fancies himself in love with a different lady every few weeks. Why, then, would Gideon regard any flirtation between his wife and her cousin, supposing there was one, as seriously meant? No, I find it far easier to believe that Christopher was talking about Mistress Napier to his sister.’

Adela was silent for a few moments. ‘That’s probably true,’ she said at last. ‘But why, when Master Bonifant overheard that remark, did he instantly assume that Christopher Babcary was referring to his cousin?’

I pushed my chair back from the fire, which was now proving too hot for me.

‘Because,’ I answered slowly, reasoning things out as I spoke, ‘he already believed Isolda to be unfaithful to him, and Christopher’s confession to his sister simply confirmed his suspicions. Gideon jumped to the over-hasty conclusion that Christopher Babcary was the man.’

‘But that still doesn’t explain,’ Adela argued, ‘why Master Bonifant believed Isolda to be cuckolding him in the first place.’

‘No,’ I agreed, rubbing my forehead. ‘I have already come to the conclusion that I shall have to go back and question Eleanor Babcary again, for if Isolda confided in anyone, I’m sure it would have been in her beloved Nell. But as it’s already been proved that the young lady will lie to protect those she loves, I doubt I have much hope of finding out the truth.’ I sighed. ‘And where does young Toby Maybury fit into the events of that afternoon? What was he doing in the parlour? If it was just to look at the chasing on the goblets, as he claims, what was he trying to convey to Eleanor behind Ginèvre Napier’s back?’

Adela turned on to her side. ‘And the maid, Meg Spendlove, she had a grudge against Master Bonifant, you say?’

I finished my ale. ‘She did. And I haven’t really established whether or not she had an opportunity to return to the parlour on her own after helping Isolda to lay the table. Yes, I’m afraid I’ve no choice but to go back to Master Babcary’s after I’ve visited Mistress Perle and the Napiers.’

‘And when will that be?’ asked Adela, sliding off the bed and coming to sit on my knees.

‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ I said, kissing her cheek.

But I had barely scraped the overnight stubble from my chin, and had only just returned from holding my head under the courtyard pump, when Reynold Makepeace came knocking urgently at our bedchamber door.

‘A messenger’s here from His Grace of Gloucester,’ he announced breathlessly when my wife had opened it in answer to his summons. ‘He says he must speak with Master Chapman.’

‘Then he must wait on me in here,’ I called out testily. ‘I’ve not yet finished dressing.’

A few moments later, the same young man who had shown me the way to Mistress Shore’s house three days earlier was ushered in by a deferential Reynold Makepeace, whose only reward was a dismissive flick of the fingers.

‘The Duke wishes to speak to you,’ the young man announced, addressing me and ignoring Adela. ‘You must accompany me immediately to Crosby Place.’

‘His Grace will have to possess his soul in patience until I’ve had my breakfast,’ I snapped, annoyed by this cavalier treatment of my wife.

‘No,’ the young man answered levelly. ‘Now! My lord is in no mood to be kept waiting. You can eat in our kitchens afterwards, if you’re so hungry.’

There was something in his tone, even though he had not raised his voice, that made me think twice about my gesture of defiance, and Adela also begged me to go.

‘You must do as His Grace commands,’ she urged.

I finished dressing as slowly as I dared with the young man’s impatient eyes fixed upon me, then I kissed my wife, assuring her that I should be back within a very short space of time.

‘I’ll return here before I visit Paternoster Row,’ I told her.

Two horses were tethered outside the inn, such, apparently, being the Duke’s impatience to see me that he could not wait for us to make the journey to Bishop’s Gate Street on foot. My guide swung himself into the saddle of one of the beasts and signed to me to mount the other.

‘You can ride, I suppose?’ he asked as an afterthought.

I assured him that I could, although it was not usually my lot to be mounted on such a spirited, thoroughbred animal.

We arrived at Crosby Place very speedily, a path through the teeming streets miraculously opening up for us at the sight of my companion’s azure and murrey livery and his badges of the White Boar and the Red Bull. The mansion looked even more impressive by daylight than it had done at night: a large, strongly constructed house of stone and timber, built around a courtyard and surrounded by what would, in spring and summer, undoubtedly be a beautiful garden. I was again shown into the great hall with its oriel window, marble floor and arched roof decorated in red and gold.

‘Wait here,’ I was instructed. ‘Someone will be with you very shortly.’ And the young man disappeared through a door beneath the minstrels’ gallery.

A number of servants and attendants passed through the hall, eyeing me with either curiosity or indifference, before the Duke’s secretary came to escort me to his master. We found the Duke seated at a table, writing, in one of the smaller chambers, but he threw down his pen and swivelled round to greet me as soon as John Kendall had announced me and withdrawn.

‘Roger! Thank you for coming so quickly.’

I felt ashamed of my former ill-humour and, at the same time, was shocked at Duke Richard’s appearance. If he had seemed unwell four days earlier, I thought him positively haggard now. The dark circles under his eyes were almost black, the eyes themselves sunk deep into their sockets. His face was all bone and no flesh, while his furred gown hung so loosely about him that it was plain to see that he had lost more weight. The hand that he gave me to kiss was skeletal.

He motioned me to the window seat and sat down beside me; or, rather, he perched on the edge, getting up to walk restlessly around the room every few minutes or so.

‘How are your investigations proceeding?’ he asked, coming straight to the point. ‘Have you been able to prove the innocence of Mistress Shore’s cousin?’

‘Not yet, my lord,’ I answered, adding defensively, ‘These matters take time. In any case, after a lapse of so many weeks, it may not be possible to uncover any proof that will solve the mystery one way or the other.’

He began to pace the floor, beating his clenched right fist into the open palm of his left hand.

‘I must have something soon that will enable me to persuade Mistress Shore to use her influence with the King in favour of saving my brother’s life.’

‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, my lord,’ I ventured, ‘having met Mistress Shore since we last talked on this subject, I don’t believe you need a bargaining counter in order to enlist her help. She strikes me as a tender-hearted lady who wishes no one any harm.’

The Duke rounded on me almost as though I had spoken blasphemy.

‘Do you expect me to beg a favour of that woman?’ He returned to sit beside me on the window seat, and I could see that he was trembling with anger. After a moment or two, however, he controlled his emotions and raised a faint smile. ‘Forgive me, Roger! But for my own peace of mind I must have a bargaining counter, as you call it. Give me the truth about this murder, and I shall be able to enlist Mistress Shore’s support without loss of face.’

‘But what if Mistress Bonifant — Mistress Shore’s kinswoman — is indeed guilty?’ I queried.

My companion was once more on his feet, restlessly roaming from window to table, from table to door and back again. The agitation of his mind would not let him be still.

‘In that case,’ he answered, swinging round to face me, ‘I shall use that fact as a threat to force her to do my will. I shall threaten to have her cousin arrested unless she does as I request.’ The Duke gave a laugh that cracked in the middle. ‘Oh, you needn’t look so outraged and reproachful, Roger. Wouldn’t you use any means in your power to try to save the life of someone you love?’ He again sat down, seizing and gripping one of my wrists so hard that the marks of his fingers remained for hours afterwards. ‘Don’t put me on a pedestal, my friend. I can be as ruthless as any other man when it comes to something that is important to me.’

‘Would His Highness really have his own brother put to death?’ The words were jerked out of me before I had time to think.

I had hardly expected an answer to so impertinent a question, but Duke Richard was once more on his feet, banging with his fist against the wall until the knuckles were skinned and bleeding.

‘Not left to himself, no! I feel sure of it! But with the Queen and all her family determined on George’s death and constantly whispering in Edward’s ear-’ He broke off, suddenly aware of the impropriety of talking to me so openly, and stood, gnawing his underlip and nursing his injured hand. Then he went on harshly, ‘My brother of Clarence was born in Dublin, did you know that? The Irish are wild men, untameable, and it’s as though some of that wildness rubbed off on George. But they’re charming, too, with the gift of the gab, and he also has both those attributes in abundance.’ The Duke continued, talking now more to himself than to me, ‘George has always been like a child, grabbing what he wanted with both hands and then relying on his silver tongue to get him out of trouble. But he looked after me when I was young, protected me, comforted me, during those terrible years of our childhood when we never knew what fresh disaster the next day would bring. I owe him more than I can ever repay.’

I said softly, fearing that I was intruding on private grief, but not knowing what else to say, ‘It’s small wonder that Your Grace is fond of him.’

Duke Richard turned to stare at me, blinking a little, as though he had been unconscious of my presence for the past few minutes, before sitting down again on the window seat.

‘I’m fond of both my brothers, that’s the difficulty, and to see them at odds like this-’ He broke off, giving a shaky laugh. ‘At odds, did I say? Now there’s an understatement! They’re both hell bent on one another’s destruction.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how George of Clarence could destroy the King, but I thought better of it. My companion had already confided in me more than he should have done, and I could tell by his suddenly wary expression that he thought so, too, and was probably beginning to regret his frankness.

I stood up. ‘Your Highness may trust me. I hope you know that.’

He nodded, giving me his hand to kiss in farewell.

‘Let me know as soon as you have resolved this mystery, Roger.’ He added, half to himself, ‘Even then, it may be too late.’

I wanted to say, ‘Go to Mistress Shore, today, and ask her to intercede for the Duke of Clarence’s life. She won’t despise you for begging this favour.’ But I knew that he would never do so. He was too proud. For reasons of his own, he disliked the King’s leman too much to enlist her help without being able to offer her an inducement in return. So I merely bowed and promised to bring him word as soon as I had reached a conclusion regarding the death of Gideon Bonifant.

‘I’m depending on you, Roger,’ were his parting words.

Which was all very well, I reflected peevishly, as I made my way back to Bucklersbury and the Voyager, but if there was no proof to be had, all the dependence in the world couldn’t produce any.

It was a bitterly cold day, with low-scudding clouds and a sleety rain that stung the face and hands, and I flung what alms I could spare to the blue-faced beggars, shivering in their scanty rags. I found Adela huddled over the fire in our bedchamber, her long, thin hands spread to the blaze, but otherwise contented and cheerful. She had been dozing, for pregnancy made her extremely sleepy, and was quite happy to doze again when I had gone. But first she wanted to hear all that had passed between the Duke and me.

When I had finished telling her, she grimaced. ‘He’s asking too much of you, Roger.’

Her assumption that I might fail Duke Richard irritated me and blew away my own pessimistic mood.

‘Well, I shan’t learn anything new by wasting my time here,’ I answered briskly, and bent to kiss her. She laughed, but refused to tell me what it was that she found so amusing. Instead, she patted my cheek and instructed me to run along, just as though I had been Elizabeth or Nicholas. (I sometimes had the impression that she regarded me as another of her children.)

Having once again obtained her assurance that she could manage very well on her own for the next few hours, I promised that I should be back before nightfall.

‘Send to Paternoster Row if you need me, to the house of either Mistress Barbara Perle or to that of Gregory and Ginèvre Napier,’ I told her.

Paternoster Row, which, as I have already said, is where rosaries are chiefly made, is on the north side of Saint Paul’s churchyard. But interspersed with the shops are several private dwellings, one of which I instantly recognised, four storeys high, the carved timbers of its gable picked out in scarlet, blue and gold. The upper windows were made of glass, three of them decorated with leaded trefoils and three with circles within triangles, both signs of the Blessed Trinity. This was the Napiers’ house, and I had last been inside it three years earlier, when I was investigating the disappearance of a brother and sister from their home in Devon. Circumstances, as I had told Master Babcary, had brought me to London to question Ginèvre Napier, who had been a friend of the children’s mother.

Before renewing my acquaintance with Mistress Napier, however, I first wished to speak to her next door neighbour, Barbara Perle, but realised that I had no idea if her house were to the left or to the right of the Napiers’. I was still trying to decide which dwelling to approach first, standing well back in order to view them better, and unconsciously edging further out amongst the traffic, when the rattle of wheels and the sound of people shouting assailed my ears. The next moment, I was caught unceremoniously around the waist and dragged out of the path of a runaway horse and cart.

‘That was a close run thing,’ panted my rescuer, a stocky youth with a broken nose. ‘You want to watch what you’re doing, Master. You could’ve been killed.’

I acknowledged the fact and grasped his hand in gratitude; but it was not until after more passers-by had come to congratulate me on a narrow escape from death that a feeling of unease began to possess me. Despite my well-wishers’ assurance that such accidents were commonplace in London owing to the general carelessness of the drivers, I was unable to rid myself of the suspicion that someone might deliberately have tried to kill me. No one seemed to have taken particular note of the carter’s appearance, or be able to describe him, but considering the speed at which he had been travelling, this was hardly surprising.

I told myself that I was being foolish. Running me down would be a risky method of trying to dispose of me, and as far as I knew, the Babcarys owned neither horse nor cart. And yet, surely by now the murderer of Gideon Bonifant should have made some move to stop me enquiring further. .

‘Have you come to interrogate Mistress Perle?’ a voice asked in my ear, and swinging round, I found Christopher Babcary standing at my elbow.

‘Where have you sprung from?’ I asked.

He looked at me, obviously surprised by my belligerent tone, and indicated the basket he was carrying.

‘I’ve been delivering her coronet to Mistress Shore, in the Strand,’ he answered, preparing to move on. ‘If you want Barbara Perle’s house, it’s that one, there.’ And he pointed to the one to the right of the Napiers’.

I thanked him mechanically, and stood staring after him as he turned away and continued walking along the street.