The Goldsmith's Daughter

Five

I recognised the place at once. It was the house where Adela and I had seen the lazy apprentice being scolded from an upper window by his bespectacled master.

Following Mistress Shore’s directions, I had walked almost to the end of West Cheap, where, at the Church of Saint Michael at Corn, it joins Paternoster Row to the south and the Shambles to the north.

‘Look for a shop and dwelling close to the Church of Saint Vedast,’ she had instructed me. ‘A representation of two angels is painted on the plasterwork between the third-storey window and the roof. I sent to my cousin this morning to warn him of your arrival. You will be expected.’

So there I was, a pallid winter sun struggling to break through the leaden clouds, my cloak and boots splashed with mud and filth from carts driving too near the central gutter, my ears deafened by the babel of street cries — ‘Hot sheep’s feet!’ ‘Ribs of beef!’ ‘Clean rushes!’ ‘Pots and pans!’ ‘Pies and pasties!’ and dozens more. Every few yards of my journey from the Strand, hands had clutched at my sleeves and whining voices had assailed my ears, pleading for alms. Some beggars were hale and hearty, others hideously disfigured, either by nature or by the cruelties of civil punishment and war, and all excited pity. I gave what I could, but there were too many suppliants, and eventually I had been forced to ignore their importunities. I reached my journey’s end with some relief and entered the shop.

A long counter faced me as I stepped inside, and beyond this was the workroom. A youth, the same boy I had seen three evenings since, was working the bellows at a furnace built into a wall, while the same elderly man was admonishing him in an exasperated tone.

‘No, no, no, Toby! A light pressure, if you please! You want to fan the coals gently into flame, not blow great clouds of smoke out through the vent to choke the passers-by! Good God, lad, don’t you ever attend to any of the instructions that you’re given?’

Another man, not so very much older than the apprentice, was hammering out a piece of gold on an anvil, which stood on a bench in the middle of the room. As I watched, he laid down the hammer and picked up a pair of tweezers, beginning to pull and tease the hot metal into shape. Near at hand lay a chisel and a rabbit’s foot, while further along the bench were what looked like a pair of dividers, a saw, a file and a number of small earthenware dishes. An array of other tools was ranged along a shelf to my right.

It was the older man, whom I rightly guessed to be Miles Babcary, who saw me first, bustling forward in the hope of a sale, his face falling ludicrously as soon as he noted my homespun apparel.

‘Master Babcary?’ I asked, holding out my hand. ‘I’m Roger Chapman. Mistress Shore told you, I think, that I should be coming?’

I judged him to be about sixty (he later told me that he had not long celebrated his fifty-eighth birthday), a ruddy-cheeked, somewhat corpulent man with thinning grey hair in which gleams of chestnut brown could still be seen. His pale blue eyes, magnified by the spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, blinked at me, owl-like, but at my words, his kindly features brightened.

‘So she did! So she did! Walk around the counter, Master Chapman. You are more than welcome. We shall be very glad, believe me, to have this hateful business cleared up once and for all. You can have no idea what it’s like for my daughter to be whispered about behind her back.’

‘Master Babcary,’ I warned, ‘I may not be able to arrive at any firm conclusion. Or. .’ I hesitated. The elder of the two younger men had now drawn near and was listening intently to our conversation. I continued, ‘Or I might reach the wrong conclusion as far as you’re concerned.’ I saw from Miles Babcary’s slightly puzzled expression that he did not fully understand my meaning, and I began to flounder. ‘What I mean is. . WhatIam trying to say. .’

The young man came to my rescue. ‘Are you suggesting, Chapman, the possibility that my cousin Isolda might really have poisoned her husband?’

Both his age and a fleeting likeness to Miles told me that he must be the nephew, named by Mistress Shore, if my memory served me aright, as Christopher Babcary. I nodded, and there was an immediate explosion of protest from his uncle.

‘No, no! I won’t have it! My dearest girl could never have done anything so terrible! Master Chapman, you are here to prove her innocence.’

‘I will if I can, sir,’ I assured him. ‘But you must have realised by now that if Mistress Bonifant isn’t guilty, then someone else is.’

Again, I encountered that bewildered stare, and again it was Christopher Babcary who interpreted my meaning.

‘What the chapman is saying, Uncle, is that if Isolda didn’t murder Gideon, then someone else in the house must be the killer; one or the other of us who was present here that day, at Mistress Perle’s birthday celebration.’

This idea, although I could see that it was not a new one to the nephew, plainly had not occurred before to Master Babcary. So absorbed had he been in trying to prove that his daughter was not a murderess that the implication of her innocence had quite escaped him. For a moment he looked as if he might burst into tears, but then pulled himself together, his face taking on a mulish expression.

‘I–I want Isolda exonerated,’ he stuttered at last. ‘She didn’t do it. I know she didn’t. She loved Gideon, whatever he might have said to the contrary. I’m sorry, Christopher, my boy, if it means that you and others fall under suspicion. But if it’s of consolation to you, I don’t believe that anyone who was present here that day is guilty, either. In fact, I’m very sure no one is.’

Christopher Babcary glanced at me, then back at Miles. ‘But it stands to reason, Uncle, that one of us must have poisoned Gideon. Besides himself, there were nine of us in the house that evening, and apart from those nine, no one else could have put the monkshood in his drink. The shop was locked and shuttered as soon as the guests had arrived.’

Miles Babcary put a hand to his forehead, growing more confused by the minute. One half of his mind could not help but acknowledge his nephew’s logic, but the other half refused to accept it. If Miles could have his way, Gideon Bonifant’s murder would prove to have been an accident or suicide; or, better still, the handiwork of a passing stranger who had mysteriously managed to gain access to the house.

I said gently, ‘Master Babcary, we cannot continue to stand here in the shop where every passing fool can gape at us through the open doorway. Can we be private? In spite of talking to Mistress Shore, I am still ignorant of many details concerning this murder.’

‘Yes, yes! Of course! But you must wait a few moments, if you please. Toby, is the gold melted yet? If so, bring it over here immediately.’

The boy lifted a pot out of the furnace with a pair of tongs and carefully transported it to the work bench, his tongue protruding from one corner of his mouth, his young body taut with concentration as he tried not to spill any of the precious liquid. Meantime, Miles Babcary had drawn towards him a thin sheet of copper on which innumerable circles were shallowly engraved; and within each circle a bird or a flower, the figure of a saint, a face or the wheel of fortune was also scored into the metal. It was plainly a mould of some sort, but what purpose was served by the final product — delicate, paper-thin, filigree golden medallions — I could not imagine.

Christopher Babcary, noting my puzzled frown, enlightened me.

‘They are sewn on women’s gowns. They make the material shimmer as my lady walks.’

‘So that’s what it was,’ I said. ‘I’m remembering how Mistress Shore’s robe glittered at the Duke of York’s wedding.’

‘As did every other lady’s gown, I should imagine,’ Christopher amended. ‘We and the rest of the goldsmiths hereabouts sold out of our entire stock of medallions during the preceding weeks.’

His uncle, meanwhile, had been filling the circular moulds with the molten gold, the surplus being caught in a narrow runnel fixed to the edge of the bench. The boy addressed as Toby began to scrape at the lumps and flakes as they hardened, gathering them up and carefully depositing them in some of the earthenware bowls.

‘Where does the gold come from?’ I asked.

‘Mostly from Hungary and Bohemia,’ Miles Babcary answered, removing his leather apron and hanging it up on a nail. ‘These days, it’s brought into the country in the shape of coins, which are thought preferable to the old-fashioned ingots. . Well now, Master Chapman, perhaps you’d like to accompany me upstairs where we can be comfortable, and I’ll tell you all you need to know about this unfortunate affair.’

He paused long enough to issue instructions to his nephew and the boy, Toby, on what needed to be done during his absence, then led the way through an inner door to a passageway beyond. Here, to our right, a staircase spiralled upwards, while, straight ahead, lay what I supposed to be the kitchen quarters. As if to prove my assumption correct, a young girl appeared, entering from the yard at the back and carrying across her shoulders a yoke from which two buckets were suspended, some of their contents spilling on to the flags in great splashes of clear, sweet water.

‘Ah! Meg!’ Miles Babcary beckoned her forward. ‘This is Roger Chapman who will be in and out of the house and shop for a while. He may want to ask you some questions, but there’s no cause to be afraid of him. Just tell him what you know. He won’t get angry or hurt you.’

The girl unhitched the yoke from her shoulders, lowering it and the buckets to the ground before approaching us with such caution that she literally inched her way along the wall, arms outstretched, fingers splayed against the stone.

‘She’s very wary of strangers,’ Miles informed me, but not loud enough for the girl herself to hear. ‘She’s a foundling, and was, I’m afraid, mistreated at the hospital on account of her appearance. She’s also slow of speech and understanding.’ He tapped his forehead significantly. ‘You have to be patient with her.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Meg Spendlove’s her name.’

I held out my hand and said gently, ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Spendlove.’

Her only answer was a goggle-eyed stare. She was so small and thin that it was impossible to be certain of her age, and I doubted very much if even she knew how old she was. (Although Master Babcary told me afterwards that they thought her to be in her sixteenth year as, according to the nuns of the hospital, she had been abandoned, at only a few days old, in the same month that Queen Margaret had invaded in the north.) She was unprepossessing to look at, someone at sometime having broken both her nose and jaw, and the bones having knit together very badly. Because of this, her mouth hung almost permanently open, and when it was shut, she breathed in a painfully wheezing fashion. Contrary to expectation, however, there was a hint not only of intelligence but also of shrewdness in the dark brown eyes, if you took the trouble to look for it.

‘You’re a good girl,’ Miles said, patting her shoulder. ‘Try to remember what I’ve just told you concerning Master Chapman. Now, off you go and finish your work or you’ll have Mistress Bonifant on your tail, and you don’t want another scolding, do you?’

The girl shook her head and went back to pick up her pails, disappearing with them through a second door which, as I later discovered, led into the kitchen.

My host and I proceeded up the twisting stairs as far as the first-floor landing, where two doors were set in the wall, side by side. Miles pushed open the right-hand one, ushering me into what was plainly the family living-room. It was as spacious as the narrow confines of the building would allow, and was, I guessed, the largest chamber in the house. A solid oaken table stood in the middle of the rush-strewn floor, a leather-topped bench, piled with brightly coloured cushions, occupied the window embrasure, and a corner cupboard displayed not the usual collection of silver and pewter ware, but, as was only to be expected, items of gold taken from Master Babcary’s stock. A fire burned brightly on the hearth, a good supply of logs stacked close by, ready to replenish it when necessary. Two armchairs, several stools and a carved wooden chest, which stood against one wall, completed the furnishings.

‘Sit down. Sit down, Master Chapman,’ my host invited, with that repetition of speech which I was soon to learn was characteristic of him. I had hardly done so, drawing up a stool to the fire, glad to warm my cold hands at the comforting blaze, when the door opened and someone else came into the room; and before I could turn my head, Master Babcary continued, ‘Ah! Here’s my daughter.’

Isolda Bonifant was not as I had imagined her. Mistress Shore had described her as being plain; plain enough, in fact, to find difficulty in attracting a husband. And indeed, no one could have described her as a pretty woman. Her best feature was a pair of deep blue eyes that returned my gaze with a candid stare, but no trace of resentment at my obvious curiosity. Otherwise, it was a strong, almost mannish face with thick, dark eyebrows, a high-bridged nose and a stern, unsmiling mouth. And yet I was immediately attracted to her. She reminded me in some way of Adela, a woman who, once she had committed herself, would give you her full loyalty and support. I could understand why her father thought her innocent of this terrible crime.

I pulled myself up short with a silent admonition. I knew, none better, that first — and sometimes even second and third — impressions could be deceptive. Master Babcary was making me known to his daughter, and I rose from my stool to return her greeting.

‘Mistress Bonifant,’ I said, bowing. ‘God’s peace be with you.’

‘I hope it may be,’ she answered frankly, advancing into the room. She looked me up and down. ‘You’re a very strange chapman. I’ve never met one before who is intimate with princes and the King’s chief whore.’

‘Isolda!’ Her father’s reprimand was harsh. ‘You won’t talk like that, if you please, while you’re under my roof. Mistress Shore is your kinswoman by blood and mine by marriage. She has done, and is doing, her best to help us. I wish you will remember that without her assistance you could well have been accused of Gideon’s murder.’

Mistress Bonifant shrugged. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had been. At least, by now, I would either have been proved innocent or be dead.’ She moved further into the room, coming to stand beside me, and I saw the dark shadows beneath her eyes. ‘But that still doesn’t explain how the chapman here is acquainted with our cousin.’

And so, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I gave brief details of my history and the circumstances that surrounded my friendship with the Duke of Gloucester. As always, my listeners expressed surprise that I had not chosen to better myself by taking advantage of the Duke’s ever increasing cause for gratitude; and, as always, I reiterated my reasons for not doing so.

‘I like my independence too much, the freedom of being my own master. I want no one set in authority over me.’

Master Babcary admitted that he could see the force of such an argument, and Isolda also conceded that, were she a man, she might feel the same way. Having said this, she begged me to be seated again and brought forward another stool for herself, placing it alongside mine.

‘Well, and what conclusions have you come to regarding the murder of my husband, Master Chapman?’

‘Good Heavens, girl!’ her father protested. ‘He hasn’t been in the house but half an hour, and as yet knows very little of what happened last December. I brought him up here for some peace and quiet and in order to make him acquainted with the facts.’

‘Then I shall stay to help you.’ And Isolda sat down with a rattle of the household keys fastened to her belt.

Miles Babcary must have seen the expression on my face, for he said nervously, ‘Do you think that a good idea, my dear? You are, after all, the one most nearly concerned and. . and. .’ His eyes rolled in my direction, seeking guidance.

Mistress Bonifant laughed suddenly, sounding genuinely amused. ‘And you think it would be better if I didn’t remain to plead my own cause?’

Miles Babcary and I assented with almost one voice.

‘Very well then,’ she agreed, rising to her feet, but just at that moment the door opened for the second time and a young girl came in.

I judged her to be some sixteen or seventeen years old, about the same age as I had learned Meg Spendlove to be, but there all similarity ended. There could not have been a greater contrast than between those two. One was plain — some might even call her ugly — unloved and had probably never known an act or word of simple human kindness until she had come to this house to work. The other was a beautiful, blue-eyed, creamy-skinned peach of a girl, obviously cherished by all who knew her. Miles Babcary’s face lit up at the mere sight of her face, and Isolda went forward to kiss her cheek.

‘Nell, my love, you must be chilled to the marrow. Was it very cold outside? Come to the fire and warm yourself.’

At the same time, Miles Babcary turned to me and said, ‘This is my niece, Eleanor. You have already met her brother, Christopher, downstairs. Nell, my sweetheart, this is Roger Chapman who has been sent to us by Mistress Shore. He has agreed to try to solve the mystery of poor Gideon’s death.’

Eleanor Babcary gave me a smiling, incurious glance, putting back the hood of her cloak to reveal an abundance of chestnut-brown hair. An effort had been made to tame it into two long plaits that hung down over her shoulders, but a profusion of little curls were everywhere escaping their confinement, tendrils that she vainly, if absent-mindedly, tried every now and again to smooth into place.

‘I wasn’t at all cold,’ she said in answer to Isolda. ‘This lovely fur-lined cloak that you and Uncle Miles gave me for Christmas has kept me warm.’ She reached out to take one of Master Babcary’s hands in hers, pressing it gratefully to her cheek.

My host’s smirk of pleasure reminded me of nothing so much as a callow schoolboy who has been praised by a favourite tutor, and my suspicions were confirmed that Eleanor Babcary was the darling of the household. What I was not so sure of was whether she was aware of this fact, or if she used the knowledge for her own advantage. Only time would tell. What was plain, however, was that Isolda, like her father, doted on her cousin, and somehow I did not think her a lady who would be easily fooled by a pretty face and a charming manner.

‘Was Mistress Perle at home?’ Miles Babcary demanded. ‘Did you speak with her? Did she agree to take supper here this evening?’

‘I saw her, yes, and spoke with her.’ Eleanor tenderly squeezed her uncle’s hand which she was still holding in one of her own. The blue eyes filled with facile tears that spilled over and ran down the velvety cheeks. ‘But she still refuses to eat with us, Uncle. She repeated that she thinks it better that she sees us as little as possible until this business of Gideon’s death is satisfactorily resolved. Those were her very words: I took particular note of them. “Until this business of Gideon’s death is satisfactorily resolved.”’

Disappointment and bewilderment were visible in every line of Miles Babcary’s face. ‘Why does she persist in this answer?’ he asked angrily of no one in particular. ‘It’s over a month and a half now since the murder, and still she refuses to set foot across my threshold. Why?’

Neither of the women seemed inclined to answer this question, Eleanor looking sympathetic, but vacant, Isolda closing her lips tightly as if there was much she could have said, but chose not to do so. It was left to me to offer a solution.

‘Master Babcary, your nephew said in my hearing that your son-in-law died during Mistress Perle’s birthday feast, so I presume that the celebration took place in this house?’

My host nodded. ‘That is correct. It was the fourth of December, the feast of Saint Barbara, after whom Mistress Perle is named, and I had invited her to sup with us that evening.’

A slightly foolish smile curled his lips and he sighed sentimentally. I began to understand his attachment to this Mistress Perle. My guess was that he had been courting her, hoping to make her his wife, and that the lady had not been unwilling. Her present rejection of him was therefore all the harder to bear.

I said gently, ‘Don’t you think that her reluctance to see you might be the result of your fierce protestations concerning your daughter’s innocence? As Master Christopher was saying to you a short time ago: if Mistress Bonifant didn’t commit the murder, then someone else who was in the house that evening did. It follows, therefore, that Mistress Perle may feel herself to be the object of your suspicion.’

Master Babcary’s florid countenance turned pale. ‘She couldn’t possibly think such a thing! She couldn’t!’ But a moment’s consideration showed him the truth of my words. He grabbed my arm and shook it. ‘Master Chapman, you must find out what really happened! Come! Draw closer to the fire and I’ll tell you about the events of that evening.’