The Goldsmith's Daughter

Seven

A log crackled, the flames leapt up the chimney and shadows were sent scurrying and curtseying across the tapestried walls. After a moment’s silence, I cleared my throat and asked the question that had been gnawing away at the back of my mind for the past half an hour or more.

‘Master Babcary, was there — is there — any good reason why your daughter should be suspected of murdering her husband? So far, you have painted the picture of a couple happily, or at least contentedly, married, even if that marriage was not a love match.’

‘Who says it was not a love match?’ My companion’s bottom lip jutted dangerously.

‘Are you claiming that it was?’ I demanded, meeting his attack with counter-attack, a strategy that I have frequently used to good effect.

The lip was withdrawn, indicating defeat. ‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded. ‘But they both liked each other well enough. It’s true that Gideon drove a hard bargain; an equal partnership in the shop, although he knew nothing of goldsmithing, and senior status to Christopher, who had been learning the trade for a full year before Gideon’s arrival in the house.’ Resentment coloured Miles’s tone and, as if suddenly aware of it, he made an effort to laugh off his son-in-law’s presumption. ‘Of course, there was nothing in that, when all’s said and done! He was Isolda’s husband, and would one day inherit the shop and everything in it in her name. It was only natural that he would have to learn what was what, and that he should expect to be more important to me than my nephew.’

Nevertheless, you did not like him the better for it, I thought to myself. Aloud, I asked, ‘Was your daughter happy that matters should be thus arranged?’

‘She wasn’t consulted,’ Miles replied simply. ‘Her assured inheritance of all that is mine was a part of her dowry, along with the sum of money I settled on her and Gideon at the time of their wedding. These are men’s concerns, not women’s. She was sufficiently content to be married at last, after years of being a maid.’ He tried to compose his features into an expression of acceptance for a situation that had plainly irked him. Miles had not cared for his son-in-law, I decided, however much he might have tried to persuade himself and the world otherwise.

‘You haven’t yet answered my question, sir,’ I reminded him, as a further squall of rain spattered against the windows.

‘Question? What question?’ Brooding upon Gideon’s shortcomings, he had forgotten what it was that I had asked him.

‘Was there any good reason why Mistress Bonifant should have been suspected of murdering her husband?’

Once again, the short-sighted, pale blue eyes looked into mine while their owner debated whether or not to tell me the truth.

‘There was none on her part,’ Miles answered at last. ‘Isolda’s affection for Gideon in the weeks and months leading up to the murder appeared to be what it had ever been, I’ll swear to that. And so will everyone else in the house.’ Or incur his undying displeasure was implicit in his tone, although the words remained unspoken.

‘In that case, what can you tell me about Master Bonifant? Did you have any reason to believe that his affection for your daughter had altered in any way? Did he ever give you any hint that all might not be well between them?’

Rain pattered down the chimney and hissed among the burning logs like a plague of snakes. The silence stretched, thin as a tautly drawn wire, but at last Master Babcary shrugged resignedly.

‘Gideon had told me some weeks, maybe a month or so, before the evening of his death that he suspected Isolda of cuckolding him with another man.’

I was betrayed into a gasp, hastily suppressed. ‘And did he happen to mention this other man’s name?’ I asked.

‘No, not directly, but he did tell me on a separate occasion that he had overheard Christopher boasting to his sister of being in love with an older woman, and that he — Christopher, that is — was almost certain that his love was requited.’

I thought about this. ‘You were not the only person in whom Master Bonifant confided his doubts about your daughter and nephew, obviously.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Miles’s tone was accusatory. ‘Have you been talking to other people before you came here?’

I shook my head. ‘Only to Mistress Shore, but you know about that. No, I’m judging by the fact that if you had been the sole recipient of Gideon’s confidence, his accusation would not have become generally known. You would have said nothing that would in any way have incriminated your daughter, and certainly not once your son-in-law had been murdered.’

‘Why should I? I had no idea if the slander were true or false,’ was the indignant rejoinder. ‘Would you expect me to repeat something detrimental about my own child for which I only had Gideon’s word?’

‘I’m not blaming you,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I have a daughter of my own, and whatever might be right in the eyes of God or the law, I know that I could never do anything that might harm her.’

‘Not even if you thought she had committed some great sin?’ Miles Babcary asked in a voice so low that I almost failed to hear him.

‘No, not even then,’ I admitted, ‘for that’s the nature of the tie between my child and me.’ He nodded to show that he understood, and I continued, ‘So who else did your son-in-law confide in?’

‘In Gregory Napier, the last person in the world I should ever have wished to be privy to my family’s affairs.’ Miles spoke bitterly, and I could see that his hands had begun to tremble. ‘There were also one or two others who came forward to say that Gideon had made them free of his suspicions. One was his former master, Ford, the apothecary, whose shop is in Bucklersbury.’

‘And what was Mistress Bonifant’s response to these accusations?’

‘She just laughed at them. She said they were absurd and that we must be making them up. At first, she didn’t seem to grasp how serious they were, especially after Gideon had been poisoned.’

‘And when she did?’

‘She was completely bewildered, poor girl. She couldn’t begin to imagine why Gideon would have wanted to spread such lies about her, and demanded to know the identity of the man with whom she was supposed to have been unfaithful.’

‘And when it emerged that it was her cousin, what did your nephew have to say?’

Master Babcary rubbed the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Kit denied it furiously. He also denied that he had ever told his sister that he was in love with an older woman, and that the woman might be in love with him. Nell, of course, upheld his story.’

‘Of course! But did you believe her?’

Master Babcary pursed his lips. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, but with a lack of conviction that made me raise my eyebrows. Reluctantly he confessed, ‘Nell has led a very sheltered life, first with her father, then with me. She is inclined to get flustered when she is hostilely questioned, or feels herself under threat in any way.’ He stared long and hard into the burning heart of the fire. ‘Sometimes, she sounds as though she’s lying when she isn’t. There are people like that, you know,’ he added eagerly. ‘She’s very shy.’

I agreed that there were indeed people in whom the mildest interrogation aroused the strongest sensation of guilt, even when they were entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. Eleanor Babcary could well be one of them, but it was also possible that, on this particular occasion, she might not have been telling the truth in order to protect her brother. I suspected from his general demeanour that her uncle had thought her denial less than ingenuous. But when I suggested this possibility to him, Miles sprang hotly to her defence.

‘I’ll swear that she wasn’t lying. You don’t know that girl as I do, Master Chapman. She is as open and as honest as the day. She abhors untruths, I tell you. She simply gets confused, as I have already explained, when faced with a barrage of questions.’

‘And who questioned her?’

‘One of the Sheriff’s officers, naturally, for of course we were obliged to send for the Law as soon as we realised that my son-in-law had been poisoned. The officer wasn’t as gentle with Nell as he might have been, and consequently her attitude persuaded him that she was lying.’

‘But she stuck to her story?’

‘Oh, yes! That, more than anything, convinced me that she must be telling the truth.’

I refrained from pointing out that if Eleanor Babcary abhorred untruths, as her uncle had just maintained, he would have needed no convincing: he would have known for a fact that his niece was not lying. Moreover, I believe that the person has not been born who is totally incapable of telling a falsehood. Surely, if for no other reason, we all instinctively make the effort to protect those whom we love.

The door opened and Mistress Bonifant’s voice sounded calmly through the gloom, unperturbed by the fact that she knew we must have been talking about her.

‘It’s nearly four o’clock, Father. Will Master Chapman be staying to supper?’

‘I — er — I have no idea, my dear.’ He turned to me. ‘Master Chapman, would you care to share our evening meal with us? You would be very welcome.’

‘I was unaware that the day was so far advanced,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Thank you for your offer, Mistress Bonifant, but I must go back to the Voyager and take supper with my wife. This visit to London was to have been a holiday for both of us, and I cannot neglect her any further this evening. Tomorrow being Sunday, I shan’t disturb your Sabbath peace, but, with your permission, Master Babcary, I’ll return on Monday and question the other members of your household.’

‘If you think you can solve the riddle of my son-in-law’s death, we shall be glad to see you,’ he answered heavily. He glanced somewhat shamefacedly at his daughter, where she still stood framed in the open doorway. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I’ve had to tell Master Chapman everything.’

‘If by that you mean that Gideon seems to have gone around accusing me of adultery,’ Isolda replied evenly, ‘it’s only what I should have expected you to do, Father. There’s no need to apologise. Thanks to the testimony of Gregory Napier and Master Ford, the apothecary, everyone in Cheapside has heard about it.’

I half expected her to plunge into a hot denial of her late husband’s allegation, but she did no such thing, and I began to realise that heat and Isolda Bonifant were strangers to one another. She was a woman of even greater self-control and self-containment than my Adela but, then, according to Master Babcary, Gideon had been of a similar temperament, and they seemed to have been eminently well suited to one another. It was possible, however, that one of them had been acting a part.

I took my leave of Mistress Bonifant and was conducted downstairs again by my host. As we turned towards the inner shop door, Meg Spendlove emerged, and at the sight of me, she shied like a startled horse. The tin tray she was carrying by her side clattered against the wall, and her thin, white face puckered as though she were about to burst into tears.

‘There, there, my good child,’ Miles Babcary said soothingly, ‘that will do. There’s no need to be frightened. No one’s going to hurt you. Have you taken Master Kit and young Toby their ale? That’s all right, then. Off you go to the kitchen before something boils over and puts out the fire.’ He added, so that only I could hear, ‘Not an infrequent occurrence, I do assure you, Master Chapman.’

Christopher Babcary and Tobias Maybury were still at their work, the interior of the shop lit now by lamps and candles, the flames reflected a hundred times over in the depths of the various gold and silver objects and precious gems. Many more of the sparkling golden medallions had been made, ready to be bought and sewn on the silk and velvet gowns of London’s wealthiest ladies, so that they could ripple with light whenever they moved. No doubt, I thought bitterly, there was some sumptuary law that restricted the medallions’ use to noblewomen only, but then I had to smile as I considered that probably no such law was necessary. For what good would these fragile, wafer-thin golden discs be to women who wore homespun and coarse, thickly woven linen?

Master Babcary was looking around in obvious satisfaction, his troubles momentarily forgotten. He was a man who plainly loved his trade, and who was never happier than when he was in his workshop. He would have had little time, then, for a man like Gideon Bonifant, who seemed to have regarded the art of goldsmithing merely as a means of making money. And as if to confirm that impression, Miles had taken my arm and was drawing me towards a small table where a coronet of entwined gold and silver ivy leaves was taking shape.

‘For my kinswoman, Mistress Shore,’ he said, picking it up and holding it lovingly between both hands, ‘to be worn next week at the Westminster Tournament, in honour of the new little bride and bridegroom. It is to be set with these Scottish pearls and Egyptian emeralds.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘I would have designed a grander circlet if only she would have permitted it. But Jane gave strict instructions that I should make nothing for her that would in any way outshine the jewels to be worn by the Queen or any of Her Highness’s sisters.’

He replaced the coronet on the table and linked one of his arms through mine, giving it a little squeeze, well away by now on what was obviously his favourite hobby horse. ‘One of the finest examples of the goldsmith’s art that I have ever had the privilege of seeing was the wedding coronet of our own Princess Margaret, when she married the Duke of Burgundy ten years ago this summer. Alas, I had no hand in the fashioning of it — I only wish that I had — but it was put on display with other items of her dowry, including all her jewellery, in the Goldsmiths’ Hall in the weeks before her wedding. It was small and was meant to perch on the top of her head to show off that beautiful long, fair hair of hers. It was made of gold and decorated with enamelled white roses, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. In the front was a diamond cross and a huge pearl set in another white rose; and all along the lower edge, “C”s and “M”s were wrought in gold and linked by lovers’ knots. Oh, it was a splendid piece of work, Master Chapman, I can tell you! It made me proud of my calling and of my fellow goldsmiths who had made it.’

I encountered Christopher Babcary’s amused glance, and he winked at me.

‘I think the chapman wants to be off, Uncle. It’s wet and dark outside. He’s wanting the comforts of the Voyager, I reckon.’

‘Of course! Of course! My boy, you should have said. But beauty delights me.’

He led me towards the street door and the display booth, where the glitter of precious metal still enlivened the darkness. Soon everything would be taken inside and safely locked away for the night but, for the moment, the windows of the goldsmiths’ shops in West Cheap continued to sparkle like so many heavenly constellations.

As I was about to escape into the murk of the January evening, Master Babcary grabbed my arm and detained me yet again.

‘My father, you know,’ he said, his eyes glowing with excitement, ‘saw the crown brought to this country by King Richard’s first queen, Anne of Bohemia, at the end of the last century. He told me that it was the most exquisite thing he had ever laid eyes on in the whole of his life. He said it was six inches tall at its highest point, straight-sided and set with the most glorious array of jewels: scores of diamonds, rubies and sapphires and more than a hundred pearls.’ Master Babcary’s transports suddenly died away in a heavy sigh. The light left his eyes and his shoulders sagged. ‘It’s gone from these shores now, alas! It was given away by the usurper, Henry of Bolingbroke, as a part of his daughter’s dowry when he married her to Ludwig of Bavaria.’

‘Uncle!’ Christopher Babcary had come to stand beside us and slipped an affectionate arm around the older man’s shoulders. ‘Master Chapman needs to be off, and we have to start packing up for the night. Besides, it’s suppertime and I’m ravenous. My stomach is positively rumbling with all those delicious cooking smells wafting in from the kitchen.’

My host was contrite. ‘You must forgive me, lad. My family have heard all my tales so often that they derive no pleasure from hearing them any more, so a stranger is a godsend to me. Well, well! We shall see you again on Monday then.’ He shook my hand vigorously and swung round on his heel, immediately berating the unfortunate apprentice for some sin of omission or commission, I wasn’t sure which.

Christopher Babcary grinned as he opened the outer door. ‘You musn’t mind Uncle Miles,’ he apologised quietly. ‘His enthusiasm for his work can become a little wearisome after a while, and you have to ask him — politely, of course, but firmly — not to repeat all the anecdotes that you’ve heard a hundred times before. But don’t you worry! I’ll make sure he doesn’t bore you too much while you’re here.’

I thanked him, but assured him that I really didn’t mind. ‘How did his son-in-law take Master Babcary’s stories?’

Christopher’s face lost its animation. ‘Gideon was never one to wrap things up in clean linen. He would tell my uncle bluntly to hold his noise; that he had no interest in what he was saying. Indeed, Gideon made no secret of the fact that he found goldsmithing itself extremely irksome. He once told Uncle Miles to his face that he would sell the shop as soon as he was master here.’

I nodded. I should have liked to continue the conversation, but instinct told me that it was not the right time. Christopher wanted to be away to his supper, and I needed to go back to the inn to find out how Adela was faring. I therefore bade him goodnight and stepped out into the wind and the rain.

Both had increased in intensity during the last few minutes, and there was also a hint of sleet in the air. The cobbles gleamed wetly between the piles of refuse that had mounted up everywhere during the day, and their surface was treacherous and slippery. I trod warily, using my cudgel as a walking stick rather than holding it at the ready as a weapon. A sudden, particularly fierce gust of wind almost tore my cloak from my back, and I clutched at it with my free hand, holding the edges together at the neck as best I could, but unable to pull up my hood, which now lay, a soggy weight, across my shoulders. I silently cursed Master Babcary for delaying me, but reflected yet again on how much he and Gideon Bonifant must secretly have disliked one another. To be compelled to live and work together, day in, day out, under the same roof, and, at the same time, be forced to present a complaisant face to the world for Isolda’s sake, must have been purgatory for both of them. Had it eventually been enough of a spur to drive Miles Babcary to murder?

I was too tired and too preoccupied with the elements to give the idea further consideration just then, and I pushed on along West Cheap in the direction of the Poultry. The rising storm had driven most people to seek either permanent or temporary shelter indoors, and there were only two or three other intrepid walkers like myself still battling against the squalls of wind and rain. Many of the wall cressets had been doused or blown out, but shafts of light from shops and houses slabbed the darkness.

I was approaching the entrance to Gudrun Lane, a gaping mouth of blackness on my left, illuminated solely by a lamp hanging high over the doorway of a stable. As I pressed forward, my head bent against the ever increasing force of the wind, I was suddenly convinced that, out of the corner of my left eye, I had seen a movement — someone or something had retreated into the alleyway. Common sense told me that there was little significance to be attached to this fact: a man, a child, a dog, a cat was taking cover from the storm. But I discovered that for no apparent reason I was nervous. Fear slithered across the surface of my skin.

I had suddenly recollected that halfway along its length, Gudrun Lane was connected, by a little street running at right angles to it, to Foster Lane. And Foster Lane, at its southern end, joined West Cheap by the church of Saint Vedast and Master Babcary’s shop. I also remembered something else that I had lost sight of during the last two or three hours, whilst making the acquaintance of Miles Babcary’s family and servants: a member of that household could well be a murderer who would be terrified that I might discover the truth about him or her. Had someone left the house as soon as I had taken my own departure, hurrying by that circuitous route to waylay me at the entrance to Gudrun Lane?

I spun round, my cudgel gripped firmly in my right hand and raised to do whatever combat was necessary. My heart began beating faster as I entered that black void of the lane, lit by its solitary beam of light from overhead.