The Three Kings of Cologne

Thirteen

Someone was ahead of us, on the path that led to the outer palisade and gate, barring our passage. I gripped my cudgel and prepared to do battle, but Hercules was ahead of me. He launched himself forward, barking like all the fiends of hell, seized the man’s right arm between his jaws and hung on for dear life, swinging several feet above the ground. He had performed this trick on at least two previous occasions when he and I had been in a tight situation, and it never failed to work. The person attacked tried vainly to shake him loose, but without avail. Hercules had jaws of iron.

As I closed with the man myself, I recognized the shadowy features of the herdsman. He looked just as ugly a customer in the dark as he did in daylight, and I had no compunction in hitting him a hefty thwack about his ears with the weighted end of my cudgel. He fell like a stone. Having, very briefly, assured myself that he wasn’t dead and would probably suffer no more than a nasty buzzing in the head all day tomorrow, I ran for the gate, Hercules racing along beside me, his tail erect with all the pride of a dog who had done his duty. Which, of course, he had, and there would be no living with him for the next few days.

The gate, as I had expected, was locked and there seemed to be nothing for it but to climb the palisade. I didn’t much care for the look of those nasty, pointed palings and realized that I could do serious damage to an essential part of my anatomy if I wasn’t extremely careful. Suddenly, however, I came to my senses, of which panic had temporarily bereft me, rummaged in my satchel for my shaving knife — a long thin blade, keenly honed — and proceeded to pick the gate lock with the greatest of ease. This was a skill I had been taught in my youth, while a novice at Glastonbury Abbey, by a fellow postulant, and one that had stood me in good stead on more than one occasion in the past. The gate creaked open, Hercules bounded ahead of me and I followed without any further delay.

We put as much distance between ourselves and Hambrook Manor as was possible in the darkness, and spent the rest of the night in a sheltered ditch which had retained a fair amount of last year’s dead leaves. These kept us warm and, to some extent, dry; but while Hercules snuffled and snored, none the worse for his adventure, I found it almost impossible to sleep for any length of time. I kept waking with a start, then spent the next half hour or so wondering what I ought to do. This pattern repeated itself throughout the night, but when dawn rimmed the distant hills, I still had not made up my mind.

I knew that as a good citizen I should report Lady Claypole’s possession of the tilting bed, but at the same time I knew very well that I should not be believed. Put the word of a low-born pedlar against that of a gentlewoman — and a defenceless widow with a title, to boot — and there was no doubt whose word would be accepted and who excoriated as a liar. I supposed I might go to Mayor Foster, but I had a feeling that he, too, would not wish to know. He was a busy man, both privately and publicly at present, and would hesitate to interfere, however obliquely, in the affairs of a lady of quality. Besides which, I had no idea how these beds worked, where or how the mechanism was hidden, whether or not it could successfully be concealed from prying eyes. And in this particular case, Lady Claypole’s outraged protestations of innocence would most likely be sufficient to reassure any official sent to investigate my claim. So, after much heart-searching, I decided to let the matter go.

I salved my conscience with the conviction that the rustiness of the clanking and whirring sounds I had heard indicated that the bed was rarely used for any purpose other than sleeping — and perhaps not often for that. I doubted if Hambrook Manor had many visitors, and the important ones would certainly be missed, and enquiries made, if they were to disappear. As for itinerant beggars and pedlars like myself, in general they would not be worth the robbing — as I wouldn’t have been if I had just kept my mouth shut about John Foster paying me for my services and probably giving an exaggerated impression of how much money I carried in my scrip. I had never, in the past, thought of myself as a braggart, but this wasn’t the first time I had landed myself in trouble because I was too free with my tongue. I made a solemn vow to be more modest in the future.

‘Your master’s a coward,’ I told Hercules when he finally emerged from his leafy covering, shook himself and looked around to see what there was to eat.

And I was going to be an even bigger coward when we finally reached home and I had to look Adela in the eye. It was just as well then, I decided, as the dog and I strode out, keeping an eye open for a cottage where we could beg some breakfast, that I should have to set off again almost immediately for Bath to look for ‘Caspar’, the second of Isabella’s three swains. And he would not be so easy to locate. This time, I had no occupation by which to recognize my ‘king’, and I had already identified the R.M. whose initials Isabella had carved into the tree. It would be a game of blindman’s bluff, stumbling around in the dark.

We arrived in Small Street before dusk and for once I was greeted with rapture by all my family. Well, rapture may be an overstatement, but Adela threw her arms about my neck and kissed me soundly, Adam embraced my knees (nearly bringing me down, but his intentions were good) while even Nicholas and Elizabeth forgot to ransack my person for whatever goodies I had brought them before standing on tiptoe to give me a hug. My burden of guilt increased.

‘Sit down,’ my wife urged me, pulling forward a stool and placing it by the kitchen table. ‘We’ve had our supper, but it was only lentil stew and there’s plenty left.’ She ladled spoonfuls of the savoury-smelling broth into a bowl as she spoke. ‘And then, when you’ve finished, you can tell me what happened. Oh, Roger, I am glad to see you again. It feels as if you’ve been absent for a month instead of a week.’

‘That’s right, God,’ I thought to myself. ‘Punish me! Make me feel the weight of my sin.’ Aloud, I said, ‘And I’m glad to be back. But I haven’t found poor Isabella’s murderer, so I’m afraid I’ll have to be off to Bath in a day or so.’

‘At least that’s not so far,’ Adela said, sitting down beside me. ‘It won’t take you so long.’

When I had eaten my fill, I swallowed a beakerful of ale, pushed my stool back from the table and recounted my story with one serious omission. I wasn’t aware of any change in either my countenance or my voice when I mentioned Juliette Gerrish, and it was probably nothing more than my guilty conscience that made me think Adela looked at me a little more keenly at that point in my narrative. So, in order to distract her attention, I told of my adventure at Hambrook Manor with the tilting bed.

Nicholas and Elizabeth were thrilled, and immediately wanted to know where such a contraption could be obtained — no doubt with plans to use it on Adam — but my wife was appalled.

‘You must report it, Roger,’ she urged me, horrified.

But when I had discussed with her all the likely pitfalls attendant upon such a course, she did finally agree that it might be better to say nothing and, for now at least, keep my own counsel. It was some little while, however, before she could stop shaking.

‘You could have been dead and buried,’ she kept saying, ‘and I would never have known what had happened to you.’

‘Not buried, I fancy. I suspect I would have been fed to the swine.’

She gasped in dismay, but the two elder children’s eyes lit up once again.

‘Couldn’t we keep pigs?’ my daughter asked. ‘There’s room for them in the yard, and Nick and I would look after them.’

Her stepbrother nodded agreement, but I was tired and had had enough of their aggravating company, so I drove them off to bed, ignoring their howls of protest. Adela, sensing my irritation, seized Adam and bore him off as well, and by the time the city churches rang their bells for Compline, peace reigned throughout the house, Hercules was snoring under the kitchen table and my wife and I were able to relax in each other’s company, seated together in the parlour. Except that neither of us was really at ease.

Adela was still brooding on what I had told her.

‘I think you should tell someone about this place, Roger,’ she said at last. ‘Oh, I know that I agreed with you a while ago that perhaps you should say nothing, but I’ve been thinking while I was putting Adam to bed, and it seems to me that that’s the coward’s way out. You could tell Richard.’

‘No!’ I exclaimed violently. ‘Certainly not Dick Manifold! Can’t you just imagine how he’d laugh and make fun of me? He’d swear I’d dreamed it all.’

Adela shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘You really don’t like him, do you? Don’t deny it! I know you tolerate his company for my sake, because he’s such an old friend, but I can see that it’s always an effort for you to be civil to him. And yet, in spite of his — I’ll admit — patronizing ways, he doesn’t bear any animosity towards you. When you’re not here, he speaks of you almost with affection.’

‘Does this mean he’s been here again in my absence?’ I demanded, jealousy, however unjustified, scorching my throat and burning like a flame in my chest.

‘He came once to supper. Margaret brought him,’ my wife replied with quiet dignity. ‘I could hardly turn him away. It would have been an insult to her as well as to him. I knew you wouldn’t like it, Roger, but I had no choice.’

Of course she didn’t; the laws of hospitality would have been breached. But I wasn’t prepared, for the moment, to be understanding. My own conscience was riding me too hard.

‘And you talked about me!’ I sneered.

‘Amongst other things.’ Guilt was making Adela keep a tight rein on her temper, I could see. ‘I’m afraid,’ she went on, ‘that Margaret revealed the reason for you being away from home. She told him all about the work you’re undertaking for Mayor Foster, and also the fact that His Worship is paying you for your pains. I … I fancied that Richard was not well pleased, and muttered something I didn’t quite catch about encroaching ways. But his annoyance was directed at John Foster, not at you. He feels, I think, that his territory has been invaded. Unexplained deaths are his preserve, and he should be left to continue with his enquiries without other people butting in.’ Adela sighed. ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. I can see that I’ve angered you, and as a consequence, you’ll be awake half the night with bile and wind.’

This picture of myself — uncomplimentary though it might be, but true nonetheless — forced a sudden crack of laughter from me that put my ill humour to flight. I was still angry that Richard Manifold had been made a party to my business, but for once I could appreciate his point of view, and had to admit that none of it was Adela’s fault. Besides, what right had I to be angry with her about anything, with my own sin hanging like a millstone round my neck?

The candle finally guttered and went out, leaving the usual smell of smoke and melting tallow lingering on the air. So we went to bed. I knew that Adela was waiting for me to make love to her after a week apart, but I pleaded tiredness and pretended to fall asleep almost at once. But in reality, it was a long time before I slept, the face of Juliette Gerrish and the memory of her perfume interposing themselves between me and my slumbers. I knew that tomorrow I must go and be absolved of my sin before I could touch Adela again, as I longed to do. She deserved a better husband than me, I scolded myself; and drowning in a tide of self-reproach, I even went so far as to wonder if she would not have done better to marry Sergeant Manifold. Self-immolation could go no further, however, and under this penitential weight my eyes finally closed. And the next thing I knew, it was morning.

My mood didn’t change with the coming of day, and when I woke to find Adela curled into my side, in the same way she so often did, I put my arm around her and gently kissed her. She opened her eyes so quickly that I realized she was probably already awake, and I was suddenly afraid that her expectations would echo those of the previous evening. But she shook herself free of the lingering remnants of sleep and raised herself on one elbow, looking down into my face.

‘I’ve been thinking, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘that, as I told you yesterday, you must tell somebody about Hambrook Manor. If you won’t confide in Richard, go to Mayor Foster and find out what he has to say to your story.’

I shook my head. ‘He has too many civic duties to attend to at present. Deep down, he might be convinced, because he trusts me, but he won’t really want to know. He won’t wish to offend Lady Claypole any more than any other dignitary in the city would. Believe me, it will be wisest to keep a still tongue in my head for the present.’

Adela made no reply, merely asking when I would be setting out for Bath and if I would be taking Hercules with me.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said, giving her another kiss which, I hoped, held a world of promise in its meaning. ‘Today I must patch my boots, fill the water barrel and fetch more kindling for you from the Frome Backs. In short, I mean to be a model husband, if only for a while.’

That made her laugh. ‘I shall believe it when it happens,’ she said, scrambling out of bed. But then her laughter faded and she stood staring at me, looking worried.

‘How will you set about discovering this man in Bath?’ she asked. ‘Even supposing he’s still alive, still lives there, you have nothing whatever to go on this time.’

I nodded. ‘I realize that, my love. “Caspar” is going to be a far greater problem than “Melchior”. Even the initials R.M. are of no use to me now. Robert Moresby proved to be the owner of those. And then of course there’s “Balthazar”. Who was — or is — he?’

My wife threw a pillow at my head.

‘I can’t keep up with all these names,’ she protested, holding up a hand. ‘Pray don’t bother trying to explain.’

She stripped off her night rail before dropping her undershift over her head and I felt a sudden urge to possess her there and then. But I controlled myself. I must expiate my sin first. Consequently, as soon as I had finished breakfast, before the streets had really sprung to life, I made my way to Saint Giles and purged my troubled conscience with confession. I can’t remember what penance I received, except that it was nothing severe; not as severe as I felt that I deserved. (There was a general slackness in the behaviour of churchmen at that time, as I recall: many of the priesthood themselves were probably fornicating daily.) At any rate, I emerged into the April sunshine feeling vaguely dissatisfied, as though I still owed Adela something, and recollected her desire that I speak to John Foster concerning the tilting bed at Hambrook Manor. So I returned to Small Street and, a few minutes later, was knocking on the door of his house.

The same maid admitted me, but seemed put out by the earliness of the hour. His Worship the Mayor, she informed me, was still abed, and enquired if the reason for my visit made it worthwhile to disturb him. I admitted that it didn’t, but just as she was about to show me politely out again, John Foster, with a much rubbed blue velvet robe cast hurriedly over his nightshift, and worn leather slippers on his feet, descended the stairs.

‘I thought I recognized your voice, Master Chapman. What have you to tell me? Oh, don’t stand here in the hall, man! There’s a draught from that street door that I shall have to fix one day, when I have the time. Come into the parlour.’ And he led the way, deaf to my muttered protestations that really it was nothing that couldn’t wait. ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ he urged, but remained standing himself. ‘Now, have you discovered that poor girl’s murderer yet?’

‘I–I’m afraid not,’ I stammered. ‘Not that I’ve been wasting my time,’ I added swiftly. ‘Indeed, only yesterday I returned from a journey to Gloucester.’ I saw the disappointment in his eyes and hastened to tell him of Robert Moresby and why I felt convinced of that gentleman’s innocence.

‘You’ve checked his story with this Sir Peter and Lady Claypole?’ the Mayor asked, a trifle brusquely I thought.

But it gave me the opening I needed to recount the details of my sojourn at Hambrook Manor, including my precipitate departure after nearly being smothered alive in the tilting bed.

John Foster frowned. ‘I’ve heard of such things, of course, but they’re unlawful. There are severe penalities for possessing one.’ The frown deepened. ‘You’re certain you didn’t imagine this, Master Chapman? You didn’t dream it?’

His scepticism was no more than I had expected, but it annoyed me just the same.

‘No,’ I answered shortly. And left it at that.

This curt reply appeared to impress him far more than a protracted and indignant denial would have done. He regarded me closely for a moment or two, then sighed deeply and at last sat down opposite me, on the other side of the empty hearth.

‘This allegation of yours should be investigated, it goes without saying. A statement must be taken from you by a notary public before anything else can be done, and then any enquiries should be undertaken with the utmost caution and tact. If your allegations prove to be untrue … All right, Master Chapman, I’m not accusing you of lying, but people, as we well know, are crafty at concealing things they don’t want to be found. Moreover, even if the mechanism for the bed were to be discovered — revealed by Lady Claypole herself — how could we prove that you had been an intended victim? It would be your word against hers. No, no! This needs very careful consideration. I can do nothing in a hurry. And I am hard pressed with civic duties just at present.’ He shot me a harassed glance. ‘There is more trouble with the Hanseatic towns. The city merchants have just raised their bid for stockfish to the Icelandic fishermen, but only yesterday we were informed that members of the League have almost doubled their offer per barrel. The Council is meeting in emergency session with the Fishmongers’ Guild this very morning and I am afraid we are in for a stormy session. And I very much fear that when I finally make known my intention to build a chapel dedicated to the Three Kings of Cologne, I’m likely to meet fierce opposition. However,’ he continued, squaring his shoulders, ‘I intend to carry my point. I admire the Rhinelanders and, above all, I love Cologne and its cathedral. I do not intend to be deterred. But if I can offer people a solution to this murder which has so disturbed them, well …!’ He let the sentence hang, giving an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

‘I should hardly think you need worry about your almshouses and chapel yet awhile, Your Worship,’ I remarked acidly. ‘If the masons work at the same pace as the workmen clearing the ground, you’ll be fortunate to see them built in your lifetime.’

John Foster gave a crack of laughter and the worry lines disappeared momentarily from his face.

‘I hope for better speed than that, Roger. I’m not so old as you pretend to think me. And in their defence, I must protest that our English workmen may be slow, but they are thorough. I learned early on in life that my fellow countrymen cannot be hurried, but if left alone and not hassled, they will do their best. In the meantime, I cannot conceal my intentions from our good citizens; and the longer they have to reconcile themselves to the notion of a tribute to Cologne, the more they will accept it. And now I must go and get dressed. I have a long and strenuous day ahead of me. But don’t think that I shall forget what you have told me about Hambrook Manor. I shall mull the problem over carefully. And what, if I shall give no offence by asking, is your next destination?’

‘Bath,’ I said. ‘I am hoping against hope that someone may still be living there who might be able to shed some further light on the final hours of Mistress Linkinhorne.’

He nodded and rose to his feet, offering me his hand. I also got to my feet and clasped it warmly. John Foster was one of the few people I knew who regarded all their fellow men as equally deserving of respect and courtesy.

‘Are you in need of more money?’ he asked, glancing towards the little chest with its carving of acanthus leaves, standing on top of the larger one.

I attempted to reassure him, but, the idea having once entered his head, he insisted on sending the young maid upstairs for the key, then unlocking it and filling another small leather bag with coins.

‘I wouldn’t have you think me ungrateful for all your pains,’ he said, pressing it into my reluctant hand and dismissing my stuttered thanks with a wave of his own. ‘Go to Bath and when you return, come to see me again.’

I returned home to find Margaret Walker installed in the kitchen on one of her all too frequent visits. But what could I say? She kept Adela company during my absences.

‘You’re off again then, I hear,’ was her first remark as I entered, knocking my head, as I often did, on the bunches of dried herbs and vegetables hanging from the ceiling. A few scraps of onion skin floated, like autumn leaves, to the floor.

‘Off again,’ shouted Adam from the shelter of his mother’s lap. ‘Always off again!’

My wife told him to be quiet but was unable to prevent the trembling of her upper lip, and burst into peals of laughter when I grinned. My former mother-in-law got up, adjusting her cap and reaching down her cloak from a peg on the wall. She delivered a short but pithy homily to us both on the correct way to bring up children and was about to take herself off when I stopped her.

‘Is Jack Nym back from Stowe yet, do you know?’

‘I haven’t seen him. Why do you ask?’

‘He might just have managed to recollect something that he was trying to remember for me, that’s all.’

She was intrigued, but when I refused to part with any further information, took herself home to Redcliffe in a huff.

‘You shouldn’t upset her,’ my wife reproached me, but smiled nevertheless. ‘I really don’t know how I’d do without her when you’re away.’ She grew serious. ‘Margaret says someone told her that you were seen coming out of Saint Giles earlier this morning. It’s not like you, Roger, to be so diligent in your devotions. Was there a special reason?’

Oh, wonderful! Thank you very much, God! There would just happen to be someone who knew someone who was a friend of Margaret Walker loitering near Saint Giles as I was leaving. Mind you, there was no reason why a man shouldn’t feel the urge to go to church now and then without being suspected of ulterior motives. But I could see at once that Adela was suspicious.

‘I went to confession,’ I answered lightly. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Oyster stew,’ was the terse response. ‘It’s Friday.’ A pause, and then, ‘Was there anything in particular you needed to confess?’

Now was the moment to make a clean breast of things; to clear my conscience once and for all; to grovel abjectly and be forgiven. But somehow or another I failed to grasp the opportunity: the hour did not seem propitious.

‘It’s just that I haven’t been for some while and I thought it time. That’s all.’ But I found it impossible to meet her eyes, and as we sat down to table — Elizabeth and Nicholas having been summoned from whatever game they were playing in their upstairs fastness — Adela’s air of suspicion was palpable. I carefully assumed a mask of innocence, realizing as I did so that deception becomes easier the more it’s practised. I began talking about my next day’s journey to Bath.

The hours until supper were occupied as I had foreseen. I patched my boots (one of the soles had worn right through), paid several visits to the well to fill our water barrel and used Adam’s little push-cart to get wood from the city stockpile near the bottom of Steep Street. On the last occasion, I walked up to see how the work was progressing on the clearing of the graveyard and discovered that it was now at least three quarters free of large stones and tangled briars. Neither Hob Jarrett nor the man called Colin were in evidence, only the tall fellow, leaning on his spade and regarding the site with a lugubrious air.

‘Hob not here?’ I called.

‘Bad back,’ was the terse reply.

I grunted and turned away, not even bothering to enquire after Colin. Had I done so, no doubt I should have received the same answer.

I devoted myself to Adela for the remainder of the day, but not too obviously or her already simmering suspicion would have boiled over. As it was, I insinuated myself further into her good graces by suggesting that I wait until Monday before setting out for Bath as I would probably only reach as far as Keynsham by the end of the following day and would not wish to travel on the Sabbath. So we had three nights together instead of one, and although the Church forbade love-making within a certain period either side of going to Mass, I managed to persuade her, although much against the workings of her conscience, that what the eye couldn’t see, the heart couldn’t grieve over. Consequently, when I said my goodbyes on Monday, after breakfast, there was a spring in my step and a sparkle in my eye that hadn’t been there for some time, and the name of Juliette Gerrish had (almost) been erased from my memory.