The Three Kings of Cologne

Two

It was another two days after the discovery of the body that I received a request from Alderman Foster to visit him at home. The messenger was a scruffy urchin whom I recognized as a regular scavenger in the central drain that ran along the middle of the roadway.

‘Oi! Master Foster wants t’ see you.’

The April weather had turned cold again after several days of springlike warmth, a chill wind sweeping the streets, sending dust and bits of dried onion skin skimming along the ground, whistling up through cracks in the floorboards and under doors and making me reluctant to get out of bed in the morning. Fortunately for the state of my finances, Adela and the children made it impossible for me to turn over and snatch another half hour’s sleep, the former shaking me vigorously before getting out of bed herself, and the latter jumping all over me. That particular morning I had been roused not only to wakefulness but to fury by Adam’s instructions to his siblings to ‘kick him in the nuts!’

‘Adam!’ I roared, heaving myself into a sitting position and thereby dislodging both Nicholas and Elizabeth from the bed, so that they tumbled on to the floor. All three immediately set up a wail that brought Adela hotfoot back into the room, anxious to know the cause of the disturbance.

I repeated Adam’s remark and demanded to know where he’d got hold of such expressions. ‘He’s only two!’

‘He’ll be three in a couple of months’ time,’ my wife pointed out, but could hardly speak for laughing, which she tried valiantly but unsuccessfully to turn into a fit of coughing.

In the end, I could see the funny side of things myself, swung my feet out of bed and kissed all three children soundly before shooing them from the bedchamber while I dressed.

With the coming of the lighter nights and warmer days, life had eased considerably and, as a family, we were again on friendly terms, the children able to play out of doors in the tiny yard at the back of the house, or upstairs during the day without freezing to death. And until this particular morning, when, in typically English fashion, winter had once more interrupted spring, I had been content to be out on the road shortly after sunrise and the opening of the city gates, hawking my wares in the hamlets and villages around Bristol, sometimes going as far as Bath or Gloucester and staying a night, sometimes two as necessity demanded, away from home. This morning, however, with the suspicion that I had a rheum coming on, judging by a sore throat and runny nose, I had loitered over breakfast and was only just filling my pack with a new stock of goods, purchased the previous day from various ships along the Backs, by the time Adela was ready to teach the two elder children their numbers and letters. Their hornbooks were laid ready on the kitchen table and she was obviously growing impatient with my continued presence.

The knock on the street door diverted her attention, and she rose from her stool to answer it. She returned a few moments later, the young boy at her heels. Before she could enlighten me, the lad had delivered his message.

I straightened my back and glared at him.

‘Alderman Foster to you, my lad. And what did he really say?’

‘I jus’ told you, didn’ I? ’E wants t’ see you.’

I gave up. ‘What about, did he mention?’

‘Nah! Why should ’e? None o’ my business. But ’e gave I a half a groat.’ He opened his dirty palm to show me the coin, then bit it with his sharp, surprisingly good little teeth. ‘It’s genuine.’

‘I should suppose it is,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine the Alderman would ever deal in counterfeit coins. And you’d better take care of it. That’s half a day’s wage for a field labourer.’ I looked at Adela. ‘I ought to go at once.’

She nodded resignedly. ‘No doubt it’ll be about this body they’ve dug up at the top of Steep Street. Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘Perhaps,’ I answered cautiously. ‘Although what the Alderman thinks I can do about it, I don’t know.’

She sighed. ‘Well, you’d better go and see. And you,’ she added, addressing the boy, ‘you’d better get off home before you lose that money.’

‘It’s safe with me, mother,’ he retorted cheekily, then stuck his tongue out at the children, who were regarding him open-mouthed, and disappeared, banging the street door noisily in his wake.

I followed him, kissing Adela a hurried goodbye before she had time to remind me that I had a family to clothe and feed and should really be out on the road, selling my wares, not allowing myself to get involved with mysterious deaths that didn’t concern me.

The wind had dropped slightly as I walked up Small Street amidst all the bustle of a new day. The muckrakers were out, trying to clear the drains, piling the refuse on to carts before driving it out of the city, either to dump it in the river somewhere a good way upstream, or to bury it in pits a few miles distant from the town. But it was a never-ending battle. Already, as fast as they were emptied, the drains were being filled up again. And the stench from the Shambles, where butchers were carving up the freshly killed carcasses of sheep, cows and pigs was overpowering enough this morning to make me retch. Normally, I didn’t notice it. I must be sickening for something.

Alderman Foster’s house was basically like my own; a hall, parlour, buttery, kitchen and, upstairs, three bedchambers. Beneath street level were cellars where he stored his salt. The difference lay in the richness of the furnishings; tapestries on the walls, silver candelabra, a profusion of velvet-covered cushions on window seats and chairs, decorated wall cupboards displaying contents of pewter, silver and gold plates and drinking vessels, rugs scattered among rushes which were freshly laid and sprinkled with dried flowers. There were no children’s toys left lying around for the unwary to trip over and no noise as the little darlings themselves pounded around, screaming, overhead. And there was no scruff of a dog scratching for fleas, only two well-behaved hounds stretched out beside a fire of logs and sea coal burning steadily in the grate.

A rosy-faced, neatly dressed young maid opened the door to me.

‘Master’s in the parlour,’ she said, bobbing a curtsey. ‘He said I’m to take you straight in.’

I was unused to such deferential treatment, and felt uncomfortable. Even in royal palaces, servants treated me for what I was; a nobody, like themselves.

John Foster rose to greet me, as I was ushered into the parlour, from a carved armchair near the window whose panes, I noticed, were oiled parchment, unlike those in the hall. (Those, to impress visitors, were made of the rarer and very expensive glass.)

‘Master Chapman, thank you for coming so promptly. Please, sit down.’ And he indicated another lavishly carved armchair, pulled close to his own. Yellow brocaded cushions covered the seat and cradled my back as I sank into it.

‘How can I be of use, sir?’

For a moment, having sat down again, he seemed at a loss as to how to begin. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said, ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about this body that has recently been found?’ My nod encouraged him to go on. ‘Of course you have. A silly question. There’s been little talk of anything else for the past two days. You are aware, naturally, that it was buried on the land I’ve acquired from the Magdalen nuns? Forgive me. Another unnecessary question. After our conversation in the Lattis in February, you would probably have realized that fact sooner than most, although I think that the majority of my fellow citizens know by now of my intentions. But have you been told that the identity of the poor victim has been established?’

This was news to me. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ I said shaking my head vigorously. ‘Who … Who is she? Did you know her?’ In my eagerness, I even forgot to address him as ‘sir’.

‘I knew of her. And of her parents,’ the Alderman admitted. ‘But only by hearsay. From friends of friends or acquaintances, so to speak. It’s all a long time ago. It must be getting on for twenty years since Isabella Linkinhorne disappeared.’

‘Twenty years!’ I echoed, astonished, not having seen the state of the body, nor having had it described to me. But now I could guess, which made my next question inevitable. ‘How, in that case, has it been possible to establish who she is? Or, rather, was?’

‘By a gold and amber necklace, and by a girdle of gold and silver links with an amethyst clasp that the corpse was still wearing. One of the nuns, who had known the lady well, was able to identify them almost immediately. And her father — Isabella’s father, that is — who is now a very old man of eighty-five, was able to confirm Sister Walburga’s story when they were shown to him.’

‘The parents are still alive, then?’

‘Not the mother. Mistress Linkinhorne, so I’m told, was found drowned in the Avon a year after her daughter’s disappearance. A terrible accident. I don’t know the details, but possibly distress of mind at not knowing what had happened to her child might have been a cause. Who can say? But Jonathan Linkinhorne is still alive and lives now in the Gaunts’ Hospital.’

‘How old was this Isabella Linkinhorne when she vanished?’ I wanted to know. ‘And when you say disappeared …?’

The Alderman pursed his lips. ‘My understanding, from the enquiries I have made, is that she was about twenty, the only child of elderly parents, born when they had given up all hope of having children. Those in the know say that as a consequence, Isabella grew up over-indulged, spoiled and wilful, just as you might expect of one allowed to run wild from an early age.’

‘And she just disappeared?’

‘Apparently. One day she went out riding, as was her daily custom, and never came home.’

I frowned. ‘Was she not looked for? Weren’t enquiries made as to what might have become of her?’

At this point, the little maid re-entered the parlour, carrying a tray on which reposed a flask of wine, two beakers and a silver dish of sweet oatmeal biscuits. She placed it on a small table near the Alderman’s chair.

‘Sorry to take so long, Master,’ she said, giving him a fleeting, conspiratorial grin. ‘Trouble in the kitchen.’

‘Again?’ he murmured with a rueful smile. ‘All right, my dear, and thank you. You’d better get back and see if there’s anything you can do.’

She departed with a giggle, leaving me relieved to know that things could go wrong in the most well-run establishment as well as in the chaos of my family kitchen.

Alderman Foster poured and handed me a beaker of wine, then sipped his own. ‘Now, what was it you were asking me, Master Chapman?’

‘I was asking, sir, what efforts were made to find the girl at the time of her disappearance.’

‘That I don’t know. The impression I get from the various people I spoke to yesterday — people who were acquainted with Jonathan and Amorette Linkinhorne — is not perhaps as much as one would expect. For the simple reason, I gather, that the idea of Isabella having come to any harm never entered her parents’ heads. They assumed she had run away with one of her many admirers. She was known to have at least three. Anyway, you will be able to find out more when you make your enquiries.’

‘When I …?’ At last, we had come to the nub of the matter; the reason for my urgent summons which, I had to admit, had escaped me until now. I should have guessed.

Alderman Foster lowered his beaker, looking guilty. ‘Forgive me, Master Chapman, but I was hoping that … well, that you could be persuaded to discover the circumstances surrounding Isabella Linkinhorne’s death. Her body has been found on land that now belongs to me and, foolish though it may seem, I feel responsible for uncovering the facts of the crime and bringing the murderer to justice if I can. You’re the only person I know who might be able to do this.’

Oh, thank you, God! You’ve taken over my life again!

‘But … but, Alderman,’ I managed to stammer before he raised a finger, enjoining my silence.

‘Master Chapman, believe me, I know what you’re going to say. You have a wife and family to support. I understand that. Therefore you must allow me to be your paymaster during such time as you are working at my behest.’

He rose and crossed the room to where a small chest, beautifully carved with acanthus leaves, stood on top of another, larger one. The former had a wrought-iron lock that the Alderman opened with a key, taken from the pocket of his velvet gown, and lifted out a leather drawstring purse which he brought back and placed in my lap. As he did so there was a satisfactory chink of coin on coin.

I made a half-hearted protest. ‘Sir, I have never taken money for any of the mysteries that I’ve solved. I’ve always regarded the ability to do so as a God-given talent; something to be shared freely with other people.’ All the same, I could just imagine Adela’s anger if she learned that I had refused the proffered assistance.

My companion seemed to read my thoughts and chuckled.

‘If your conscience troubles you, Master Chapman, give the purse to your goodwife as a present from me. You needn’t touch a penny of its contents. Well, what do you say? Will you take on this search for me? Will you try to discover what really happened to this poor young woman, even though she was murdered twenty years ago? I feel sure it’s within your powers of deduction.’

I hesitated, but more for effect than any other reason. I could already feel the prickles of curiosity, the need to know the answer to any problem with which I was presented, nudging me towards acceptance of John Foster’s proposal.

‘And if I’m unable to discover the truth?’ I queried.

‘I shall still be satisfied that you have done your best.’ Nevertheless, his tone implied that he would be disappointed.

I sighed. That was my constant fear; that one day someone would present me with a mystery I would find impossible to unravel. My self-esteem would be trampled in the dust.

‘Very well,’ I said, ‘but only if my wife agrees.’ The Alderman inclined his head. ‘So, tell me,’ I went on, ‘who are the people I should speak to? Is there anything further that you, yourself, know about the Linkinhornes?’

The Alderman resumed his seat, reaching out to lay a hand on my arm.

‘First, accept my thanks. I’m deeply grateful to you for your willingness to undertake this investigation for me. I could not go ahead and build a chapel on this land at the top of Steep Street if I felt that I had not done everything in my power to let this poor girl’s spirit lie easy; to bring her murderer to book.’

I doubted that the killer, supposing I could unmask him, would share the same sentiments. Whoever he was, the discovery of Isabella Linkinhorne’s body — if, that is, he had yet heard about it — must have come as a nasty shock. He would surely have thought himself safe after twenty years or more. All the same, he would probably consider it unlikely that anyone would bother to search for him, or that his identity would be uncovered even if anyone tried. It would be almost impossible to prove a man was in a certain place at a certain time two decades earlier. I began to feel very uneasy, wondering what I had taken on.

I realized that Alderman Foster was speaking, answering my question.

‘I can only advise you, my dear young man, to visit Jonathan Linkinhorne at the Gaunts’ Hospital as soon as possible. As I told you, he is a very old man now, eighty-five or thereabouts, unable to look after himself and with no woman to care for him and tend to his needs. Only he can give you the true facts of his daughter’s disappearance, so I would suggest that you talk to him without delay.’

I nodded, picking up the purse and making preparations to rise. ‘Are — were — the Linkinhornes a Bristol family?’ I asked.

‘I believe they lived in the manor of Clifton. Indeed, my information is that Jonathan Linkinhorne continued to live there until he grew too weak to fend for himself. But he will tell you all you need to know. He may be frail in body, but it seems his mind and understanding are as good as ever. Although I am only repeating what friends and mutual acquaintances have told me.’ I got to my feet. The Alderman rose with me. ‘Let me say again how grateful I am to you, Master Chapman. I am in your debt.’

I smiled wryly. ‘Save your thanks, sir, until I’m able to tell you what you want to know. I promise nothing.’

He patted my arm once more. ‘I feel certain you won’t fail me.’ I wished I could share his certainty.

Adela was not best pleased when I reported my conversation with Alderman Foster, but her feelings underwent a change when I produced the purse. She emptied its contents on to the kitchen table and drew a deep breath as the coins ran in all directions. The children, always interested spectators, whooped with excitement and chased those that fell off the edge and clattered across the stone-flagged floor.

‘That’s very generous of the Alderman,’ she said, rescuing the groat that Adam was trying to stuff into his mouth, and instructing the other two to put their booty back on the table. She was beset by sudden doubts. ‘Should you really be willing to accept so much, Roger? I daresay that altogether there’s the value of at least two or three nobles here.’

Her sentiments found an echo in my own mind, but how could I tell how long this enquiry might take me?

‘I didn’t solicit the money,’ I answered quietly. ‘Nor did I expect it. Alderman Foster offered it entirely of his own accord. He’s very anxious that the mystery of this Isabella Linkinhorne’s death should be cleared up and the person responsible brought to justice.’

‘Why, do you suppose? You say he didn’t even know her or her family.’

I shrugged. ‘If he were only intending to build the almshouses on the site, perhaps he wouldn’t worry. But, as I understand it, he is reluctant to raise a chapel on ground that has been contaminated by murder. If the criminal can be brought to book and made to pay the penalty for his misdeeds, then I think the Alderman will feel that he can safely have the graveyard re-consecrated.’

My wife carefully gathered up the coins, dropping them one by one back into the purse. ‘You must do your very best, Roger.’

I suppressed a grin at her change of tune and merely replied that I always did; whereupon she put her arms around my neck, kissed me soundly, apologized and said she knew that without being told.

‘When do you intend to start? If you are going to the Gaunts’ Hospital right away …’

I shook my head. ‘Master Linkinhorne can wait. First, I need to talk to the workmen who found the body. But before even that, I shall walk over to Redcliffe and have a word with Margaret.’

‘In heaven’s name, why?’

I grinned. ‘My love, there’s precious little that’s gone on in this city for the past fifty years that either Margaret or one of her cronies doesn’t know about. I’ll own myself extremely surprised if one of them can’t tell me more about the Linkinhornes than the family even knew about themselves.’

Adela laughed. ‘You’re probably right. If my cousin or Bess Simnel or Maria Watkins have nothing to say, there’s most likely nothing to tell.’ She added, ‘Take the dog with you. He needs the exercise.’

Hercules was stretched out by the fire and I stirred him with my toe. He opened a bleary eye, farted loudly, rolled over and went back to sleep once more. My wife, however, was having none of that. She fetched the rough leather collar I had made for him and the length of rope we used as a leading string and handed them both to me with an imperious gesture. Ten minutes later, while she and the two elder children settled down with their hornbooks for an hour of lessons, I trudged up Small Street yet again, at my heels a reluctant hound who was making his displeasure plain by dragging at the rope and stopping to investigate every smell that caught his fancy. In the end, exasperated, I picked him up, tucked him under one arm and carried him the rest of the way, down High Street, across the Backs and Bristol Bridge and into Redcliffe.

I was in luck.

My former mother-in-law was not only at home, but was enlivening a dull April morning by entertaining Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins to small beer and oatcakes, the three of them sat around the table, their heads close together, emitting sudden snorts and cackles of laughter as they busily tore some poor neighbour’s character to shreds. Indeed, they were so busy gossiping that they didn’t even hear me knock, and only glanced up when the draught of my entry into the little room fluttered their caps.

‘Dear Lord,’ Maria Watkins grumbled, flashing her toothless gums, ‘look what the cat’s dragged in.’

‘Don’t you mean the dog?’ giggled Bess Simnel and promptly doubled up at her own witticism.

Margaret Walker demanded suspiciously, ‘What’s wrong? Is Adela or one of the children ill?’ With a mixture of pride and ill-usage, she added to her friends, ‘They can’t get along without me, you know.’

The other two exchanged fleeting grins and made to rise from their stools.

‘We’ll be off then,’ Goody Watkins said. ‘Come along, Bess.’

‘No, no!’ I expostulated. ‘I need all three of you. There’s nothing wrong at home, Mother-in-law. I just need some information.’ At the magic word, the two elder women resumed their seats with alacrity, fixing me with their bright, beady blue eyes. ‘It’s about the girl whose body was found in the old Magdalen nuns’ graveyard a few days ago. Isabella Linkinhorne, I’m told her name was. I’m wondering if you know anything of her, or her parents’ history. If you know anything at all, that is.’

If they knew anything! The mere suggestion that they might not was an insult that made them grow pink with indignation.

Maria Watkins gnashed her gums and declared that she’d always known that that girl would come to a bad end. She appealed to her friends. Hadn’t she always said so?

The others nodded solemnly. ‘We all did,’ Bess Simnel amended, unwilling to let one of them take credit over the other two.

‘But did you know her well?’ I asked, frowning and stooping to untie the rope from around Hercules’s collar. ‘I was told she and her parents lived in the manor of Clifton.’

‘True enough,’ Margaret admitted. ‘And she was some years younger than any of us.’

‘Four or five, at least,’ Goody Watkins agreed.

‘Oh, really, Maria!’ Bess Simnel was scathing. ‘In your case, ten or eleven, surely. Isabella would be over forty now, if she’d lived. And you can’t pretend to me that you’re a day younger than fifty-five!’

Margaret Walker intervened hurriedly. ‘Let’s just say that Isabella Linkinhorne was younger than the three of us and leave it at that. And yes, the family did live in the manor of Clifton. But that didn’t prevent us hearing about her and her wild goings-on.’

‘An only child, Alderman Foster tells me, and very spoiled,’ I said.

But mentioning the Alderman was a mistake, and they insisted I inform them of his and my involvement in the search for the murdered woman’s killer. They were, of course, thrilled. They would be first with this news throughout Redcliffe and then the city. They were immediately willing to tell me everything they knew.

Disappointingly, this varied little from what John Foster had already told me, except that they remembered Isabella visiting the city on occasions with her parents.

‘And not just with Master and Mistress Linkinhorne,’ Bess Simnel said, nodding her head and pulling down the corners of her mouth. ‘I recall times when she arrived entirely on her own, without even a maid in attendance.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Maria Watkins agreed, mashing one of the oatcakes to pulp with the back of a horn spoon, then feeding her toothless mouth with the crumbs. ‘Hard-faced hussy she was, in spite of her youth.’

‘She was very beautiful, as I remember,’ objected Bess.

‘Didn’t say she wasn’t,’ her friend retorted, spluttering through a mouthful of crumbs and spitting most of them out over the table. ‘Jus’ said she was hard-faced. And so she was.’

‘You’re both right,’ Margaret said, keeping the peace. ‘Lovely to look at, but wilful with it.’

‘Men,’ Goody Watkins opined darkly. ‘They were her weakness. And her downfall, mark my words.’

‘They’re most poor women’s downfall,’ Bess Simnel agreed gloomily.

They all three nodded and glared reproachfully at me. I knew better than to try defending my reprehensible sex, and looked suitably conscience-stricken. Even Hercules raised his head and gave me an accusing stare.

‘Was there a particular man in Isabella’s life?’ I asked.

Margaret sniffed, Maria Watkins let rip with a raucous laugh and Bess Simnel looked down her nose.

‘More than one, if all the rumours were true,’ my former mother-in-law said disapprovingly. ‘The story was that one of ’em was a Bristol man.’

I was puzzled. ‘Why was it only a story?’ I asked. ‘Wasn’t she ever seen with him?’

Goody Watkins guzzled some beer, then smacked her lips together. ‘She was a crafty piece, that Isabella Linkinhorne. She was never actually seen by anyone with any of her lovers. Leastways, not up close, so’s they were recognizable. And if she’d a man in Bristol, she kept him pretty dark.’

‘It sounds to me,’ I said severely, ‘as if this poor girl’s reputation was undeserved. If no one ever saw her with a man …’

‘Oh, she was seen all right!’ Margaret protested. ‘From the time she could get astride a horse …’

‘Or a fellow,’ cackled Goody Watkins, then laughed so heartily she choked on a crumb.

‘Be quiet, Maria,’ Margaret admonished her and turned back to me. ‘From the moment Isabella could sit astride a horse, she was out nearly every day, in all weathers, riding across the downs. And as she grew older, not always alone. Very often there was somebody with her, thought to be a man.’

‘And not necessarily the same one every time,’ Bess Simnel added. ‘As I recall, there were reports of two or three.’

All this while I had been helping myself, unbidden, to Margaret’s oatcakes, but now cleared my mouth to say reprovingly, ‘Isabella’s lovers were nothing but hearsay, in fact. A case of give a dog a bad name and hang him. Or, in this case, her.’

The three women exchanged indignant glances.

‘If that’s going to be your attitude,’ Margaret said, ‘you might as well leave now — and while there are still some oatcakes left for the rest of us,’ she added waspishly.

‘We know what we know,’ Bess Simnel snapped. ‘And we stand by every word of what we’ve said.’

‘Danged impudence!’ shouted Maria, banging her spoon on the table, just the way Adam did when he was angry.

I rose meekly from my stool and fastened the rope leading string around Hercules’s collar.

‘We’d better go, my lad,’ I whispered. ‘I think we’ve offended the ladies.’

We both beat a strategic retreat.