The Three Kings of Cologne

Eighteen

‘The last time I …’ He broke off, looking shocked, as though I had awakened him too abruptly from a dream world to reality; as though, for a few brief seconds, he did not know where he was. ‘The last time I spoke to Isabella?’

I nodded and said, ‘Yes,’ in confirmation. I could see at once by the look in his eyes, by the slightly shifty expression that lurked at the back of them, that he remembered the occasion quite clearly, but was reluctant to divulge it, so gave him a helping hand. ‘Was it the morning of the day she disappeared?’

‘It’s … it’s difficult to recall after all this time. Twenty years seems like an aeon ago.’ He gave a nervous laugh that rang hollow. ‘I was young, I know that. A green youth in the throes of my first great passion.’

I was unimpressed by this blatant bid for my understanding and sympathy.

‘It was a March morning of rain and wind,’ I said. ‘You met her near your usual trysting place of Westbury village. She was seen talking to someone — a man, wearing a cloak with his hood pulled forward over his face.’

‘And why should you think that man was me? It seems now that there were at least two other men whom Isabella knew and was friendly with, so why should it necessarily have been me? Has someone claimed to have recognized me?’

‘I told you, whoever it was had his hood pulled well forward, concealing his features.’

‘Then why …?’

‘Because Master Robert Moresby has a witness to the fact that, on that particular morning, he was elsewhere.’

‘And the second man? Ralph Mynott, I believe he’s called. If, that is, Jack Gload has the name aright. Can he, too, claim a witness as to his whereabouts that morning?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘And if you asked me to produce evidence to exonerate him, I couldn’t. It’s just a feeling I have that he was not the man Isabella encountered on the downs that day.’

‘A feeling!’ Richard exclaimed scathingly. ‘Feelings don’t count, man, when you’re searching for the truth. If you ask me, Roger, these mysteries that you claim to have solved — if, indeed, you have solved them and it’s not just so much moonshine — have been more by luck than judgement.’

He was trying to goad me into losing my temper, and was very nearly succeeding. But I realized that the attempt was for a purpose and that to play his game was to hand him the advantage over me, so I suppressed my anger and answered coolly, ‘You, yourself, have been witness to some of my successes. And if you have never been guided by your feelings — what women would call intuition — then I shall own myself very much surprised. Moreover, if you claim otherwise, I shan’t believe you. I recollect an occasion when you would have pinned a murder on me for no better reason than you disliked me for being Adela’s husband. Fortunately, I had a witness to testify to my innocence.’

His eyes met mine for a moment, then dropped to study his hands, clasped on the table in front of him.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said quietly. He began picking at a piece of loose skin around one of his thumb nails. ‘It’s true. I’ve always resented Adela’s preference for you. Nor, I admit, have I ever understood it.’

He was, I realized, adopting another tactic: leading me away from the subject of Isabella Linkinhorne by trying to start a dispute between us over our rival merits in the eyes of my wife.

‘Nor have I ever understood it,’ I agreed, beating him at his own game. ‘It is, moreover, undeserved,’ I added with far more sincerity than he could possibly have guessed at. ‘But all this is beside the point. I still think you were the man that Isabella was seen talking to on what proved to be the last morning of her life.’

Richard bit his lip. ‘Oh, very well,’ he admitted savagely after a moment’s silence. ‘Yes, the last time I ever saw her was on a very stormy morning early in the year. It might have been March. I don’t really remember. But that it was the last morning of her life is more than I know. Or you, either, I fancy.’

‘Perhaps. But it seems to be the last occasion on which anyone saw her alive. What did you talk about? How did you come to meet her? Had you arranged to do so, or was it by chance?’

He stood up suddenly, his face contorted with fury, his stool clattering to the floor behind him, his fingers gripping the edge of the table until the skin of his knuckles seemed in danger of splitting.

‘Hell’s teeth! Who do you think you are, Roger Chapman, to come here questioning me in this fashion? Me!’

I half expected him to order me from the cottage, and was preparing to retreat in good order. Instead, he began pacing up and down the floor, looking daggers at me, it was true, but also appearing to be debating with himself. Finally, he came back to the table, righted the stool and sat down again.

‘I didn’t kill Isabella Linkinhorne,’ he said quietly, ‘although it grieves me very much to have to say so. That anyone could think me capable of murder, least of all you, is shaming.’

‘Why?’ I demanded bluntly. ‘Whatever face you choose to present to the world, Richard, I know you’re quite capable of paying someone to beat me black and blue in order to protect yourself; capable, as I reminded you just now, of trying to arrest me for a killing I didn’t do-’

‘The evidence pointed to you,’ he defended himself, and I was forced to admit that that was true. But spite had informed the attempt. And as though in sudden acknowledgment of the fact, he raised his head and looked me straight in the eye. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I met Isabella by chance that morning. We hadn’t arranged a rendezvous, and when I saw what the weather was like, I doubted if even she would go out riding. Yet it was worth the risk. Little deterred her from taking those daily gallops across the downs. But by the time I’d reached the heights above Bristol, the wind and rain had increased twofold — threefold — to what they had been down here in the shelter of the city walls, and I had no real expectation of seeing her.’

‘But you did.’

‘Yes. I chided her for coming out in such weather, but she said she’d been unable to remain cooped up indoors.’

‘Did she say why?’

My companion shook his head. ‘She didn’t really need a reason. She was wild, was Isabella. Headstrong. It was part of her great charm, at least for me. And she hated her parents. Perhaps hated is too strong a word, but she disliked them. She found their overwhelming love oppressive. It drove her, literally, I think, a little mad. She told me once that, when she was a child, she had attacked her mother with a knife, and only her nurse’s timely intervention had prevented her from killing Mistress Linkinhorne. I longed to be able to free her by marrying her, but in those days I was in no position to support a wife.’

Once again, I was amazed by the inability of these men who had loved Isabella Linkinhorne to understand her. All three had wished to free her from her parents’ tyranny by making her their wife; by removing her from one golden cage to what she would undoubtedly have seen as yet another; by rescuing her from her mother’s and father’s overwhelming love only to smother her with their own.

‘What did you and she talk about that morning?’

‘God alone knows!’ Richard gave a sudden rueful grin, displaying one of his rare flashes of humour. ‘And probably even He’s forgotten.’ He was immediately serious again. ‘How do you expect me to remember after all this time?’ He sounded testy. ‘It wasn’t the weather for idle chatter. I told you, I chided her for being abroad on such a morning, but what she said in answer or what I said after that I’ve not the smallest recollection.’

‘She didn’t say that she was on her way to meet someone? That she was going to another man?’

‘No, she did not.’ Richard’s face was grim, as though the knowledge that this might have been the case, even after all those years, had the power to hurt him. ‘You don’t listen, Roger. I’ve explained that I had no idea, back then, that there was any other man — let alone two — but me.’ He hesitated before asking, ‘Are you telling me the truth?’

‘If Robert Moresby was telling me the truth, then yes. But,’ I went on quickly, ‘I think it extremely doubtful that Isabella ever intended to honour her pledge to meet him at Hambrook Manor. If you can bear the truth, I think she enjoyed making fools of you all.’

‘And what do you know of her?’ Richard asked, rounding on me savagely.

‘I’ve learned enough about her in these past three weeks and more to work that out.’ I softened my tone. ‘Does it rankle so much?’

‘I loved her,’ he answered simply. ‘And I thought she loved me.’

‘First love is often like that, I suppose.’ I rubbed my forehead, a sudden bleak feeling around my heart. ‘It’s the one you remember most.’

He glanced curiously at me. ‘Adela wasn’t your first love, then?’

I shook my head, recalling soft blue eyes, delicate, pale skin, lips that I had longed to kiss, but never had, a villainous father whom I had brought to justice, an act which made me her enemy and exiled me from her life …

I realized with a sudden shock that Richard and I were on the brink of becoming friends. Worse still, I was being unfaithful to Adela yet again, if only in my thoughts. With an effort, I pulled myself together and returned to the matter in hand.

But what else could I ask Richard Manifold? He had finally admitted to knowing the murdered woman; had acknowledged that he was the man seen speaking to her on the morning of the day she disappeared, and yet I was no nearer finding the killer than I had been at the outset of these enquiries. He could be any one of the three men I had spoken to, or none of them. If one, two, or all three were lying to me, how could I prove it after twenty years? Isabella Linkinhorne had, in some way, brought her death upon herself by her deliberate betrayal of the men who loved her. She had mocked their affection for her by abusing their trust and laughing at them behind their backs. It would be all too easy to say that what had happened to her was no one’s fault but her own.

But that would be to condone murder, to ignore the injunction laid on us by God: Thou shalt not kill. (Nor commit adultery either, whispered a voice inside my head, but I ignored it. I was finding it easier with practice.)

‘Well?’ Richard Manifold’s voice cut across my thoughts. ‘What have you decided, Chapman? Am I guilty of Isabella’s death, do you think?’

I sighed and rose to my feet.

‘The truth is,’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘No, nor never will,’ my companion sneered, also rising. ‘The real truth is that you would have done better to heed my warnings to leave well alone. It’s all too far in the past, and you and our Mayor between you have done nothing except open up old wounds, stir memories that are best forgotten and throw mud that all too readily sticks to the innocent as well as the guilty.’

‘You’d prefer a murderer to go unpunished, then?’ I asked, looking him straight in the eye.

If I’d hoped to shame him, I was disappointed.

‘In this case,’ he answered steadily, ‘yes.’ He added honestly, ‘The reason for your visit here is bound to get out. Even a couple of dunderheads like Jack and Pete are capable of adding two beans to three and making five, and they are both incapable of holding their tongues. They won’t mean to blab, of course. They just won’t be able to help themselves. And as I pointed out to you a moment ago, mud, once thrown, has a nasty habit of sticking. What authority will I have, if people are wondering if I could possibly have murdered a woman?’

‘I’m sorry, Richard,’ I said. ‘But if you hadn’t tried so hard to put me off the scent, I might never have associated you with Mistress Linkinhorne. Anyway, it’s too late for apologies now. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Oh yes, there is,’ he retorted, leaning towards me, his expression suddenly vicious. ‘Just exercise those much vaunted, God-given powers of yours and find out who really murdered Isabella.’

I walked home for my dinner, tired and dispirited. I was never going to solve this mystery, I could feel it in my bones. And, indeed, although acknowledging that I had experienced a similar sensation more than once in the past, I had never done so with such conviction as at the present. As I had already told myself that morning, there was no way that I could say for certain whether my three ‘kings’ were lying or telling the truth.

The jostling crowds, impeding my progress, seemed suddenly inimical, my path constantly barred by sellers of hot pies, jellied eels, spiced wine, all plying their wares with what appeared to be unusual aggression. A gaggle of women and young children were chasing a hurdle on which an unfortunate baker was strapped as he was dragged to the stocks, pelting him with his underweight loaves and hurling abuse at his shamefaced head. And although he undoubtedly deserved his punishment, the sight nevertheless depressed me even further.

I received my customary welcome from my family. Adela gave me a quick, distracted peck on one cheek while she ladled broth into five bowls, prevented Adam from tipping his chair over backwards and cracking his head on the kitchen floor, and called yet again for Nicholas and Elizabeth to come to table. My son gave me a fleeting smile and continued banging his plate with his spoon, while my stepson and daughter, when they did finally deign to appear, ignored my presence completely. Only Hercules was pleased to see me, but as he seemed to have mistaken my left leg for a bitch on heat, I had to detach myself from his embrace with greater roughness than his affection warranted.

As we finally settled down to the business of eating, Adela said, ‘A message came for you from Mayor Foster while you were out this morning, Roger. He sent that maid of his to say that he would be pleased if you would call on him — at his house, not the Councillors’ Hall — when you’ve eaten your dinner.’

I groaned.

My wife eyed me astutely. ‘Nothing to tell him, sweetheart? Did Richard admit to having known Mistress Linkinhorne?’

‘Yes. He even admitted to being the man she was seen talking to on the last morning of her life — or, at least, on what I presume to have been her last morning — but vehemently denied any involvement in her killing.’

Adela opened her eyes wide and gave a short laugh. ‘My dear, what else did you expect? What else could you expect?’

‘Nothing,’ I agreed glumly. I swallowed another spoonful of broth and went on, ‘I’m going to tell Mayor Foster, when I see him after dinner, that there is no more I can do to find Isabella Linkinhorne’s murderer. One of her three former swains is probably lying, but there is no way I can prove which one after all this time.’

My wife sighed, but went straight to the heart of the matter. ‘In that case, we must try to repay Mayor Foster the money he gave you. It would be only right.’

‘I know.’ I continued spooning broth into my mouth, but it suddenly tasted like river water. ‘It’s all my fault,’ I apologized. ‘I should never have agreed to take it in the first place, then I would have carried on working as I usually do, whilst trying to find an answer to the mystery.’

Adela nodded. ‘Much of it’s gone, I’m afraid. But we have a few savings put by. We’ll use that to reimburse him. We’ll manage somehow.’

Her brave words, uttered without any reproach to me, suddenly engulfed me in a wave of guilt. I got up from my stool, went round the table, pulled her to her feet and enveloped her in a heartfelt embrace.

‘You’re a wife in a thousand,’ I muttered thickly, and kissed her again, to the great delight of Adam, who thumped on the tabletop with his little fists and shouted, ‘Kiss, kiss!’ at the top of his voice. Nicholas and Elizabeth dissolved into fits of laughter as they mimicked him.

‘Kiss, kiss! Kiss, kiss!’

When she was finally able to speak, Adela, straightening her cap and smoothing down her skirts, demanded to know what she had done to deserve this unexpected bussing.

‘I … I just wanted you to know that … that …’ My voice petered out lamely.

‘That you love me?’ my wife suggested dryly.

It was my turn to nod, feeling suddenly foolish. Adela smiled understandingly and advised me to finish my broth before it got cold. But I also thought that there was a certain suspicion in her glance, then decided it was only my guilty conscience firing my imagination.

I resumed my seat, saying hopefully, ‘Mayor Foster may well refuse to accept the money.’

‘You must make him take it,’ Adela insisted. ‘Either that, or you must continue with your efforts to discover Isabella Linkinhorne’s murderer.’

I laid down the spoon I had just picked up, shaking my head miserably.

‘It goes against the grain to admit defeat,’ I muttered, ‘but I can’t see any possibility of sorting truth from lies in this instance. It’s all too long ago.’

‘The affair, last year, at Bellknapp Manor, was in the past, yet you found the answer to that.’

‘It was only six years in the past, and there was the more recent murder to help me. This is two decades gone.’

‘Have you prayed to the Virgin and Saints to help you?’

‘I’ve prayed to every Saint in Heaven,’ I retorted snappishly, ‘but so far, I’ve received no help to speak of.’

This wasn’t, of course, quite true. My inspiration about the three sets of identical initials had surely been God-given, as had been my discovery, seemingly by chance, of the link between Robert Moresby and Ralph Mynott. But now, these hints and nudges appeared to have dried up and I was on my own. Floundering.

Adela said gently, ‘Before you present yourself at Mayor Foster’s house, you could visit Saint Giles’s or Saint Werburgh’s or even All Saints’ Church and ask again for assistance.’

I took her advice and went to beg Saint Giles for guidance. My customary (and secret) heretical practice was to ignore the Saints and go straight to God, demanding His help as the price of doing His work of righting wrongs or bringing the guilty to justice. But today, with my own burden of guilt weighing me down, plus the nagging suspicion that God was perhaps not best pleased with me, I felt that intercession on my behalf was a necessity.

The church was quiet and almost empty at that hour of the morning. Kneeling on the rush-strewn floor, in the shelter of a pillar, I recalled the story that no less a personage than the great Charlemagne himself had, on one occasion, sent for Giles to hear his confession, but had told the saint that one of the sins on his conscience was too shameful for him to admit to. Giles, however, had later learned in a vision what the king’s sin was — although alas, for the curiosity of the rest of us, he never revealed it — and, from henceforth, took Charlemagne under his especial protection. Well, I thought, if Giles could condone a sin of such proportions, perhaps my solitary infidelity may not appear so terrible in his eyes and he might be able to persuade God to overlook it, just this once. (But there was the rub. Would it be for just that once? I had to convince both the Saint and myself that it was.)

So it was in a sober and chastened frame of mind that I continued walking up Small Street until I reached Mayor Foster’s house, and was admitted to the hall by the little maid who had brought the message. To my utter astonishment, I discovered that another visitor was there before me. Richard Manifold.

‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded rudely.

‘I’ve been sent for. Why are you here?’

‘I’ve also been sent for. The message was delivered to Adela while I was with you, earlier this morning.’

He grunted. ‘My summons arrived just after you’d left.’ We eyed one another uneasily. ‘Why do you think Mayor Foster wants to see us both?’

I had no more idea than he had, but one thing was clear: I could postpone my declaration of failure until another occasion. Similarly, my offer to repay John Foster the money he had given me could also be delayed.

Our host did not keep us waiting long, but came downstairs in full mayoral robes and insignia a minute or so after my arrival. He was plainly on his way to a meeting of the Council, so, I guessed, would not wish to keep us long. Whatever he had to say to Richard and myself would be brief. We bowed and waited for him to speak.

Horses and I have never got on.

To me, they are creatures with a leg at each corner and wild, staring eyes that mean nothing but mischief. Probably they sense my nervousness and despise me for it. Certainly the one I was riding, hired for me from the livery stables in Bell Lane, was not the docile animal I had been led to believe by the groom. It sidled and bucked unnervingly whenever it had the chance to do so, and made heavy going over every patch of rough ground.

My companion, who sat upon a horse with greater ease, and handled the beast with greater skill than I would have expected, laughed openly at my attempts to quieten my mount.

‘We should be at Hambrook Manor well before suppertime,’ Richard consoled me, ‘and home again before dark.’

‘I cannot see why I should have been asked to accompany you,’ I complained petulantly. ‘I’m not an officer of the law. Why not Jack Gload or Pete Littleman?’

Richard shrugged, turning his head to look at the city now far below us as we reached the open spaces of the downs.

‘You heard what Mayor Foster said. He and other members of the Council feel that Lady Claypole should be warned about her possession of this bed of hers — or at least made aware that it is no longer her secret. You know which bed it is. There need be no searching of the house should she choose to deny its existence. Indeed, she would be foolish to do so with you standing beside me.’

I felt angry. This woman had tried to kill me; or if that had not been her intention (and I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt) at least to give me a nasty fright. I had realized by now of course, that she had been afraid of my investigations leading me to her brother, Ralph Mynott — which suggested that she either knew something that could implicate him in Isabella’s murder or else that she was unsure of his innocence; most probably the latter. But what angered me was that she was not to be charged with trying to harm a respectable citizen going about his lawful business, but instead to be warned politely that, in future, any strange disappearances in the vicinity of Hambrook Manor would bring her under immediate suspicion. Had she been poor or without the protection of a title, I doubted if she would have been treated with such consideration.

I said as much to Dick Manifold, but he told me not to be such a fool: it was the way of the world. This I knew already. But injustice was something I found difficult to reconcile myself to with any degree of equanimity. However, I said no more on the subject and we rode on in silence. I wondered if Richard were thinking of Isabella, remembering his meetings with her, here on the uplands, desolate in winter but beautiful, as now, in late spring with the trees and shrubs of burgeoning green.

Hambrook Manor eventually came into view as we trotted over a rise and began to descend a slight declivity set with brakes of foaming hawthorn blossom. Another brief canter and we were approaching the outer gate, where the porter let us in without demur, obviously impressed by Richard’s air of authority and his badge of office. We were handed over to the Steward, who gave me a leery glance, but again put no rub in our way, merely remarking that he would ascertain if his mistress would be pleased to receive us.

He returned within a very few minutes and bade us both follow him to my lady’s solar. As we mounted the shallow flight of stairs leading to this room, Richard hissed in my ear, ‘Leave the talking to me. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.’

I felt my gorge rising and made no answer, but my anger was short-lived. As we entered the solar, it became apparent that Lady Claypole was not alone. At the sight of me, Juliette Gerrish rose to her feet and, ignoring Richard, came towards me, holding out both her hands.

‘Roger!’ she exclaimed, smiling broadly. ‘How very unexpected, but how very nice to see you again.’