The Holy Innocents

Chapter Nineteen

I made my way to St Lawrence’s Lane, to Blossom’s Inn – so known locally because its sign showed St Lawrence Deacon surrounded by a wreath of flowers – and called for ale. Then I found a cosy corner and withdrew into the shadows, remote from the press of bodies all about me and the clatter of tongues, speaking in an alien brogue. For in those days, and maybe now, for all I know, that particular tavern was journey’s end for carters and carriers from the eastern counties. I had chosen it deliberately, needing to think, and not wanting, however remote the chance, to meet anyone I knew from my own part of the world, who might wish to engage me in conversation.

I managed to secure the end of a high-backed bench, where a party of carders from the fens were renewing acquaintance with much good-humoured chaff, brimming mazers and plates of steaming mutton broth. They had no interest in anyone but themselves, and once I was able to shut my ears to their talk – not difficult considering the thickness of their speech – I focused my thoughts on the events of the previous hour, and more especially on Ginèvre Napier’s final disclosure.

‘Eudo Colet,’ she had told me, ‘has the gift of being able to speak without moving his lips And when I say “speak” I mean with clarity, not in the imperfect, muffled way that you or I might, if we tried to do the same. I have seen him, at the fairground, invite an onlooker to stand at his side and make it sound exactly as though that person were talking. I watched him perform this trick many times during the three days that Rosamund and I visited St Bartholomew’s fair, for she was so infatuated, from the very first moment of clapping eyes on Eudo, that we returned again and again to gawp amongst the crowds around the mummers’ pitch. Until I tired, that is, and grew bored and went off to view the rest of the sights.’

‘I have myself seen this sort of trick performed,’ I said, ‘but not, I fancy, with such skill as you describe.’

‘Wait!’ Ginèvre had raised one pale hand, its tracery of knotted veins showing up cruelly in the pallid sunlight. ‘There’s more. Eudo could also mimic other people’s voices. In fact, if you closed your eyes and listened, you could imagine him to be an old man or even an old woman, a crying baby or a young child. It was remarkable – and frightening.’

‘A child,’ I said, and the roof of my mouth felt dry with excitement. ‘You say he could mimic a young child?’

‘I tell you, he was able to copy anyone.’ Ginèvre brought her hand down hard on the table-top, her many rings making a dull thud as they struck the wood. ‘But neither was that the greatest of his talents.’ She had reached out and laid her hand on mine, although I do not think, on this occasion, she was altogether aware of what she was doing. ‘He could make his voice sound as though it were coming from a distance. Once, during the months he stayed here, while Rosamund did her best to turn him into a gentleman – an impossible task, as we have both agreed – I was in this room with him, when I heard my husband speak, behind me. I whirled about, expecting to see Gregory at my shoulder, but he wasn’t there. And when I turned back to Eudo Colet, he was laughing. I was so furious, he never practised the trick on me again, in spite of Rosamund encouraging him to do so. She thought it amusing and very clever, until I warned her that if Eudo fooled people in such a manner when she was home, in Devon, his fairground origins might soon be guessed at. I think the force of this argument must have struck her, for after that, Eudo ceased to exercise his peculiar talents. But take it from me, chapman! I have never met anyone, either before or since, who possessed one tithe of his ability. A gift from God – or from the Devil!’

Her words were still ringing in my ears as I sipped my ale.

The mutton broth smelled good, but for once in my life, I wasn’t hungry, in spite of not having eaten for many hours.

I was too excited, and needed to make sense of what I had learned. First and foremost, I now knew, beyond all doubt, that the childish voice which had lured me from my bed, belonged not to the earth-bound spirit of either Andrew or Mary Skelton, but to Eudo Colet. Secondly, that being the case, his knowledge of the damage to his property stemmed from that night, and not from anything he might have seen on a later occasion. And that, in its turn, led me to the conclusion that I was mistaken in believing he had paid Grizelda a visit the night of the second murder. Eudo could have spied Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis anywhere within the walls of Totnes, or indeed outside them, without our noticing him. I had imagined the shadowy figure in the passageway, behind Grizelda. It had been a trick of the darkness. She had not deceived me into thinking that she was there alone.

I heaved a great sight of relief, and found that my hand was trembling so much I was in danger of spilling my ale.

Carefully replacing the beaker on the table, I leaned back in my corner and closed my eyes for a moment, overcome by the realization that my feelings for her ran deeper than I had so far admitted to myself. She held a fascination, an attraction for me which, if it was not yet strong enough to be called love, was nevertheless something closely akin. It was difficult to say exactly where the enchantment lay, for I had met many younger and more beautiful women without succumbing to their charms, although, if I were honest with myself, I knew that I was susceptible to sudden infatuations, quite often for women who felt nothing in return for me.

I opened my eyes again, drank some more ale and considered how Ginèvre Napier’s disclosures weighted the evidence in favour of Eudo Colet’s guilt concerning the killing of his stepchildren. But as the afternoon waxed and waned, as my table companions paid their shot and left, to be replaced by yet a second gathering of carters, this time from around Norwich, I was still left with the same dilemma which had dogged me from the outset of this case.

My newfound knowledge concerning Eudo made it possible to believe that he himself had killed the children sometime between Grizelda’s departure and his visit to Thomas Cozin. Casting my mind back as well as I could, I felt sure that neither Bridget Praule nor Agatha Tenter actually claimed to have seen Mary or Andrew Skelton during that time, but had only heard their voices from the upper floor. Eudo playing his tricks! Even when he had stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted up to them, ‘God be with you,’ and Mary had been heard to answer, ‘And with you, too!’ it could have been nothing but an illusion that the child was still alive. A clever man. A very clever man, who had used his talents for his own evil ends. And yet… When he returned to the house, it was Bridget who had been sent to look for the children and summon them to his presence, but, according to her, they could not be found. Alive or dead, they had vanished.

It was a warm night, the April air untouched by chill, the sky soft, deep, and luminous, lit by a thousand twinkling stars, and I slept snugly enough in the hayloft of a barn on the outskirts of Paddington village. My appetite had sufficiently recovered, before I left Blossom’s Inn, for me to consume two steaming platefuls of their mutton broth, together with the heel of a loaf and another generous stoup of ale. By the time I awoke the following morning, I was thoroughly refreshed and determined to return to Totnes as soon as possible. I washed and shaved in the stream which watered the surrounding meadows, begged some bread and cheese from the farmer’s wife, in exchange for a pack of needles and set off along the dusty highway which led westwards, trusting that, before long, I should fall in with a carter travelling in the same direction.

Once again, my luck held, and in spite of two days when I had only my legs to carry me, less than a week later I found myself approaching Exeter. The carter who had let me ride in the back of his wagon for the past two days, was anxious to be home and had therefore kept up a good pace, with small regard for the bumps and other obstacles of the road, not caring to talk or to stop more than was necessary, with the result that on Friday afternoon, he drew up close to St Catherine’s Chapel and the adjacent almshouses, with an hour or so to spare before Compline. As I slid from the back of the cart, from between the bales of linen destined for a local mercer, I thanked him and asked if he knew where the lawyer, Oliver Cozin, dwelt. The man nodded dourly.

‘Oh, aye,’ he said, ‘there’s few that don’t know Master Cozin in this city.’ He eyed me sharply. ‘Why would the likes of you wish to speak to a lawyer? Not in trouble with the law, are you?’

I hastened to reassure him that his wagon had not been harbouring a wanted criminal, and was directed to a handsome, half-timbered house near to the West Gate, in Stepcote Hill. My knock was answered by a thin, hawk-like woman, who was plainly the housekeeper, and who would have sent me about my business had I not had the foresight to put my foot between the door and its jamb as soon as it was opened.

‘If you will but mention to your master that Roger the chapman desires a word with him, I feel certain that he will see me,’ I wheedled. I smiled at her, hopefully.

‘Lawyer Cozin’s at supper,’ she retorted, but I could tell that she was beginning to waver. I smiled again. ‘Oh, very well!’ she snapped. ‘Wait there. But you’re not to cross the threshold until I return.’

I gave my word, and she disappeared through a door to her left. I heard the low murmur of voices, followed by an exclamation of annoyance, then a testy, ‘What brings him here?’ But a moment later, the woman reappeared and gave a jerk of her head.

‘In there. The master will see you, but you’re to be quick. He’s an engagement before curfew in another part of the town.’

I nodded submissively and entered the lawyer’s dining parlour where the remains of his supper stood on the long, oaken table. It was a room boasting few concessions to comfort, except for one or two faded tapestries on the walls and a single armchair. It was a room typical of its owner, and just how I had imagined the home of Oliver Cozin would be.

‘Well?’ he demanded abruptly, and without formal greeting. ‘What do you want, chapman? When did you leave Totnes?’

‘A fortnight since,’ I answered, easing my pack from my shoulders and placing it on the floor. ‘A day or so before Your Honour was due to return home to Exeter. In the meantime, I have been to London and back.’

‘London, eh?’ He raised his eyebrows, his attention quickening a little. ‘I assume that fact has some significance, or you would otherwise not have mentioned it. Therefore, enlighten me. I haven’t all night to spare.’

So I told him all that I had discovered from Ginèvre Napier, the reasoning which had led me to seek her out in the first place and the conclusions I had drawn from what I had learned. Master Cozin heard me out in complete, but attentive, silence, a frown creasing his brow as I talked, and growing deeper by the minute. When, at last, I had finished, he said nothing for a while, staring at the table and gnawing his lower lip. Finally, however, he raised his head and looked at me.

‘So!’ he said. ‘You have been able to discover Master Colet’s origins where my brother, Thomas, failed. Understandably, I suppose, when one considers the source of the information. This Mistress Napier, judging by your description of her, is the kind of woman who could be persuaded to part with secrets by a good-looking youth, where an older man would be spurned.’

Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself warmly defending Ginèvre.

‘Pardon me, sir, but I think you do the lady an injustice. Firstly, Master Thomas did not go to London himself, but sent a servant to do his business for him. Secondly, Rosamund Colet is now dead, and can no longer be hurt by her secret becoming generally known. But more than that, her two children have been murdered. No friend worth her salt would keep quiet in such circumstances, not if she thought her knowledge could perhaps aid the truth.’

‘But does it?’ The lawyer drummed his fingers irritably on the table-top, fixing me with an accusing stare. ‘I grant you may have proved that Master Colet could have murdered his stepchildren, and then disguised the fact by imitating their voices as though they were still upstairs. Furthermore, I accept your argument that neither Andrew nor Mary Skelton went down to breakfast, that neither was actually seen by either Bridget Praule or Agatha Tenter between the time they arose and the time they disappeared. But you still have not proved to my satisfaction how Master Colet was able to remove the bodies from the house.’

‘He must have done it somehow,’ I pleaded desperately. ‘Their deaths would make him even richer than he was already. And surely, sir, you must agree that he also had a sounder reason than the outlaws to kill both Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis, before they recognized him and gave away his secret.’

‘Ye-es.’ Oliver Cozin pursed his lips. ‘Of course, you will not be aware that the outlaws were smoked out of their lair three days after the Sheriff’s arrival, and are now securely under lock and key in the county gaol here, awaiting trial. Nor will you know that amongst the crimes for which they have vigorously denied responsibility, are the murder of your mummer friends and the Skelton children.’

‘There you are then!’ I exclaimed excitedly. ‘It must have been Eudo Colet, the one person in each case who had something to gain by the murders.’

The lawyer heaved himself to his feet.

‘Then prove to me how he removed the children’s bodies from that house to the banks of the Harbourne! For he certainly had no opportunity before he left to visit my brother, and none, either, after he returned. Dead bodies weigh heavily, Master Chapman, even children’s, and from the time that Bridget found them missing, Master Colet remained, or so I understand, within sight not only of her and Agatha Tenter, but of everyone else called in to aid in the search.’

My elation died and I suddenly felt very tired. Defeat stared me in the face. Yet there had to be an answer! I could no longer believe Eudo Colet innocent of the crimes.

Somehow or another, he had had a hand in his stepchildren’s deaths. Master Cozin must have thought so too, for, to my astonishment, he came round the table, pushed me down on to a stool and poured me a cup of wine.

‘Here, drink this,’ he said. He went to the parlour door and called his housekeeper, instructing her, when she came, to fetch me some food. ‘And make the chapman a bed for the night by the kitchen fire. After that, send Tom to the livery stable and say I shall need my wagon and horses soon after breakfast tomorrow.’ When the surprised and curious housekeeper had departed to do his bidding, the lawyer turned back to me. ‘I shall come with you,’ he said, ‘back to Totnes.’ He added, as one granting an unheard-of concession, ‘You may ride with me, in my carriage.’

The painted wagon, with its seats upholstered in dark red velvet and its side-curtains of matching leather was one of the finest equipages I had seen, astonishing it should be that of a lawyer, a profession which, pleading constant poverty, normally travels, then as now, on horseback.

Both Oliver Cozin and his brother, beneath their crusty exteriors, were warmer-hearted men than Oliver, at least, cared to be thought, except, perhaps, by members of his family. I could imagine no other man of his standing giving a common pedlar a place in his carriage, nor permitting me to sit at his table in the roadside tavern where we stopped to eat dinner. He did, of course, insist that I left my pack and cudgel inside the wagon, and frowned a little over my threadbare attire, but otherwise offered no indication that I was an embarrassment to him.

During the first part of our journey, he made me repeat all that I had learned from Ginèvre Napier, nodding at some parts of the narration, shaking his head dubiously over others, but making no comment that was worth the having, other than, when at last I had finished, ‘There is still the matter of the disposal of the children’s bodies.’ After a moment’s silence, he added, ‘If we cannot prove Eudo Colet guilty of the children’s murder, I doubt we shall prove him guilty of the mummers’, for I know that the lord Sheriff like everyone else, is ill-disposed to believe the outlaws’ protestations of innocence on that head.’ He gave a barely perceptible smile. ‘No one will be anxious to accuse a seemingly honest citizen when there is a bunch of rogues at hand on whom to pin the blame.’

I began to feel almost an affection for Master Cozin, an emotion I would previously have deemed it impossible for a lawyer to excite. Most of his breed would have been very reluctant to believe ill of a man who was their client, and one, moreover, who was a source of wealth, particularly when the accusations came from so lowly a person as myself. But Oliver Cozin, I realized, was that rare thing, a lawyer who loved justice for its own sake.

After we had dined, and the sun was climbing slowly towards its zenith, the warmth increasing as midday approached, our conversation dwindled and sleep overtook us both. Master Cozin’s man, Tom, who had made it plain, to me at least, that he resented my presence in the carriage, vented his annoyance by jolting us over every bump and irregularity of the road’s surface that he could find, without laying himself open to his master’s reproaches. In spite of this, however, the lawyer and I, each in our own corner of the velvet-covered bench, began to doze. Master Cozin rather more quickly than I, for by the time I finally lapsed into unconsciousness, the carriage was filled with the sound of his gentle snoring.

I would have sworn that my mind was too preoccupied with the murders of Andrew and Mary Skelton, and the mysterious means by which their bodies had been disposed of for me to sleep. But I had reckoned without the effects of a good dinner, which, together with the motion of the carriage, however erratic, lulled me like a baby in its mother’s arms.

It was not, however, a peaceful slumber: the lentil stew, followed by pike in galentyne sauce and then honey cakes with pine nuts, lay heavily on nay stomach. I began to dream…

I was in woods of intense and pillared blackness, being lured forward by the singing of a child. Sometimes the voice was close to me and sometimes farther off but always in the distance, the singer unseen. The roots of trees snaked across my path and I often stumbled, scratching my hands and grazing my knees, until suddenly, the track, absurdly, gave way beneath me, just as the gallery had done, and I began to fall…

I came to my senses literally with a jolt, as the carriage traversed a series of bumps worse than anything we had so far encountered. I could hear Tom whistling to himself as he drove the poor horses forward with a sting of the whip. I glanced at Oliver Cozin, but he still slept on, blissfully unaware of his man’s disapproval. I settled myself again in my corner and stared out at the passing countryside, the leather curtains having been drawn back to give us more air.

It would soon be May Day, and the young, green leaves of early summer bedecked the trees. Deep pink flowers of campion starred the tall grasses.

I thought of the night that I had heard the singing, how at times it had seemed to be close at hand, at others far away.

I shivered. Eudo Colet must have been as near to me in the darkness as I was now to Master Cozin, yet always keeping just sufficiently ahead to be out of sight. He had stolen out of Thomas Cozin’s house without disturbing the inmates, leaving the door unlocked against his return. Then he let himself into his own house, probably into the outer courtyard, made his way through the kitchen to the inner one, where he loosened, with knife and saw, the middle strut of the gallery.

Returning to the kitchen, he climbed to the lofts and tiptoed gently across the walkway, no doubt taking great care not to tread too heavily on the weakened centre. He had then entered the bedchamber, traversed the landing and let himself into the upstairs parlour, where he could see me asleep, below. Using his talent for mimicry, he had begun to sing…

Yet again, I shivered. He had enticed me forward as he retraced his footsteps, at times falling silent, in order to rest his throat. Once he knew me awake and following, he must have retreated across the gallery, giving himself time to step with caution, and leaving the far door open to attract my attention. The rest had fallen out exactly as he had trusted it might – with the exception that my midnight experiences had not quenched my burning desire to get at the truth. Eudo Colet had not rid himself, as he had hoped, of my inquiring presence.

I must have dozed again, without even being aware of that moment when I crossed the borderline of sleep. For suddenly, although I was still jolting along rough roads, I was sitting beside Jack Carter in the front of his wagon. He was talking to me, I knew because I could see his lips moving, but most of what he was saying, I was unable to hear. It was just a jumble of low-pitched sound. Only now and then, did any words make sense.

‘She was pushed… she was pushed… she was pushed …’

‘The same cloak, the same dress, year in, year out …’

‘Pride and the ability to mask her true feelings …’

Then, in the unpredictable manner of dreams, Jack Carter and I were no longer in the wagon, but sitting at a table in Matt’s tavern. I could sense that he was about to tell me something of great importance, something which would unlock the key to this mystery of the Skelton children and how their bodies were removed from Eudo Colet’s house. He opened his lips to speak, but as he did so, his face seemed to melt and reform, becoming that of Innes Woodsman. He leaned forward until his face was close to mine, and shouted, ‘You leave ’er be.’

I was wide awake, to find Master Cozin regarding me with concern.

‘You cried out in your sleep,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying, but you seemed to be disturbed. You’re very pale. Are you feeling unwell?’

I shook my head. ‘No, not unwell. Just sick that I have allowed myself to be so blind and foolish.’ I slewed round on the seat to face him. ‘For I know now how the bodies were removed from the house, to be found, weeks later, on the banks of the Harbourne.’