The Three Kings of Cologne

Five

I walked home through the April afternoon with a growing sense of unease; but by the time I approached the Frome Bridge I had managed to pinpoint at least three causes of my discomfort.

Firstly, I had never before used my talent to make money; never allowed my services to be hired. I had solved mysteries for many people, but always maintained my independence, supporting myself, Adela and the children by my efforts as a pedlar while sorting out those God-sent problems; problems which usually — I’m too modest to say always — resulted in some wrong-doer being brought to justice. Once, the Duke of Gloucester had sent money after me, but it had only supplemented what I had managed to earn for myself and, although undeniably welcome, it had not been vital to my or my family’s survival. Now, however, I had broken my golden rule and was living on John Foster’s bounty while I did my best to unravel the puzzle of who had killed Isabella Linkinhorne. I had established a precedent. And that worried me.

The second thing disturbing my peace of mind was something I suppose I had always secretly acknowledged, but considered it as yet too early in life to face up to: the difficulties, the clash of wills that inevitably arose between parents and children as they all grew older. Jonathan and Amorette Linkinhorne’s relationship with their daughter had plainly been an extreme one, but it demonstrated the depths of misunderstanding — indeed of total alienation — that could develop through selfishness and pride on the one hand, and deep-seated resentment and rebellion on the other. I knew that both Adela and I were unusual in our concerns for our offspring; that many people, including Margaret Walker, regarded us as lax preceptors because we spared the rod and, in their eyes, spoiled the child. I even worried about it myself, sometimes. And although I often, loudly and forcefully, expressed contrary views and made threats that I, and everyone else, knew I had no intention of carrying out, I doubted if Adela and I would ever reach such a state of wilful ignorance concerning our children’s doings as the Linkinhornes had with Isabella.

Finally, there was the thought of old age itself, provided either disease or disaster failed to carry me off before my allotted three score years and ten; the expectation of diminished eyesight, impaired hearing, creaking joints and incontinence. (And although the reality hasn’t proved to be quite as bad as I had anticipated, there is still the shock of waking up each morning and realizing that my tomorrows are numbered.)

So I crossed the Frome Bridge to the gateway feeling thoroughly despondent, glancing up at the great keep of the castle where it brooded over the town, hanging in the sun-threaded air like some fairy palace. Only it wasn’t a fairy palace, but rather a place of darkness and misery, suffering and despair. In stark contrast, from the chapel of Saint John-on-the-Arch floated the voices of children singing, a little ragged at the edges but with a heart-rending purity of sound, bringing hope and comfort and joy to everyone who heard them. The thin spring sunlight sent grey and silver shadows rippling across the surface of the water; and the small stone customs house that stood near the river reminded me of a pebble washed up by the tide.

Edgar Capgrave was still on duty at the gate, and still arguing, this time with the stream of homeward-bound visitors who were objecting to the toll on goods being taken out of the city.

‘I don’t make the laws, mother!’ he was bellowing at a deaf woman with a basket of goods weighing down her frail old arms. ‘Them’s Bristol goods for Bristol people you’m squirrelling away to your hidey-hole in the country. So course you’ve got to pay a toll! It’s only right and proper.’

‘I’m not your mother!’ the crone screeched in reply. ‘I just wish I were! You’d feel the weight of my fist! Such incivility to a poor, defenceless old woman!’

Once again, I left Edgar to it and went home for my supper — only to find myself faced with a domestic crisis.

‘The night-soil man hasn’t come today,’ was Adela’s greeting. ‘The privy’s full to overflowing. You’ll have to do something about it, Roger. We can’t have turds being trodden all over the yard.’

‘Turds!’ shouted Adam, beaming all over his bread-and-milk-spattered little face and waving his spoon at me.

Wonderful! Cleaning out the privy was just what I needed before tackling my rabbit stew. But it wasn’t the first time I’d had to do the night-soil man’s job for him. He seemed to be constantly going sick. Perhaps it was genuine. Either way, who could blame him?

When I’d finished — in the absence of the night-soil man’s horse and cart, transferring the privy contents to the street’s central drain — Adela shooed all three children upstairs while I sat naked in the old wooden tub in front of the kitchen fire and she poured pitchers of alternate cold and hot water into it until I was covered to my waist. Then she scrubbed my back, laughing and wrinkling her nose at the disgusting smell of the clothes I had dropped on the floor. One thing very nearly led to another, but the patter of feet up and down the stairs reminded us that it was far too early in the evening for any kind of dalliance. So Adela found me a clean shirt and my only other decent pair of hose and, when I had got out of the tub, set about soaking the offending garments in my bath water. While all this was going on, and I was rubbing myself dry on the piece of rough sheeting we kept for that purpose, I took the opportunity to tell her about my conversations with Sister Walburga and Jonathan Linkinhorne.

‘What I don’t understand,’ Adela said, as she laid the kitchen table with plates and spoons for supper, ‘is how Isabella’s body came to be buried in that plot of ground if, as everyone insists, it had never been used as a graveyard. Digging a grave, even a shallow one, can’t be easy. And that spot is near enough to both the nunnery and Saint Michael’s church that anyone doing so would surely have been bound to attract attention at some point in the proceedings. Even under cover of darkness, you’d think that someone would have seen or heard something at some time.’

She was right. I hadn’t until that moment thought of it myself, although no doubt I would have done so eventually. But then, there was much about the case that I hadn’t had occasion to consider as yet. All the same, I used it as an excuse to get my arm around her waist and tell her what a clever woman she was, while at the same time trying to insinuate one hand into the top of her skirt.

She gently pushed me away, a warning glint that I recognized in her fine dark eyes.

‘Don’t patronize me, Roger.’

I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Pax! Pax!’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m sorry.’

She accepted my apology with her usual good grace, and called the children down to supper. Elizabeth and Nicholas, ever hungry, stormed in and climbed on their stools, waiting impatiently for their bowls of stew to be passed to them. Adam, who had already been fed, was free to roam about the kitchen at will, but most unexpectedly chose to clamber on to my knees and lay his head against my chest. It made eating difficult, but when Adela offered to relieve me of my burden, I smiled and shook my head.

‘No. Let him be.’

She returned my smile, knowing, with that intuition wives develop, that I was thinking of those other parents whose understanding of their child and her needs had led eventually to total estrangement. And when, after ten minutes or so, Adam wriggled free of my embrace and trotted off about his own small affairs without any reproaches or efforts to detain him on my part, she smiled at me again, more lovingly than ever.

‘What will you do next?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘I can do nothing tomorrow, it being Sunday. But on Monday, I think I must walk to Clifton and try to find this Emilia Virgoe, Isabella’s nurse.’

But late that night, lying in my arms, content and drowsy after making love, Adela suddenly roused herself, raising her head from the pillow to ask, ‘How could any mother and father be so ignorant of what their child was doing? Who she was seeing? And surely when she disappeared like that, they should have bestirred themselves to make more enquiries than they did?’

I could tell from her tone of voice that she was worried, foreseeing, as I had done, a future when these problems might be ours, and frightened for the outcome. I tightened my hold on her.

‘We’re not the Linkinhornes,’ I reassured her. ‘We shan’t expect to command our children’s love, or feel slighted if they withhold it. Or at least not so that it shows. And we’d never let our resentment of their behaviour get in the way of doing what was right. If Elizabeth or Nicholas or Adam vanished without a word, we’d move heaven and earth to find out what had happened to him or her.’

‘Is that what you think it was, resentment?’

‘Oh, yes. I feel certain of it. Isabella had shut them out of her life, even flagrantly lying to them. And they must have known in their hearts that she was lying, even while pretending to themselves that they believed her. They’d given her everything, including more love and attention than one person could cope with. So when, as they thought, she left them without a word for the love of someone else, they only made a pretence of trying to find her. But I think the lack of effort must have preyed on Mistress Linkinhorne’s mind. A year after Isabella’s disappearance, she was dead. Drowned in the Avon.’

‘Suicide?’ Adela whispered.

‘Not officially. An accident; and maybe it was. But I can’t help wondering if remorse played any part in her death.’

‘Poor woman.’

Adela spoke so softly that I barely heard her, as a sudden squall of rain rattled the bedchamber shutters and wind moaned down Small Street between the overhanging eaves of the houses. I kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘Go to sleep,’ I murmured, ‘and stop worrying over matters you’ve no hope of mending. Our lives can never be that bad, not while we have each other.’

She settled her head contentedly once more against my shoulder, and I thought I caught a half-laughing, disjointed mutter about men and roving eyes and their general untrustworthiness, which I considered it best to ignore. I gave her another kiss, which was received with sufficient, if somewhat sleepy, passion to make me think of assaulting the citadel again, but tiredness won. Before the thought was even half-formed, I was (so Adela informed me the following day) snoring.

Sunday passed, as Sundays generally do, in a haze of churchgoing, reading of the Scriptures and boredom. There was no sign of John Foster at Saint Giles. It being the Sunday before his swearing-in as the city’s new Mayor, he would have gone in procession with his fellow aldermen and the out-going Mayor to Saint Mark’s chapel at the Gaunts’ Hospital, and I was relieved to be spared his anxious queries as to how my investigation was proceeding. (People always thought that facts just fell into my lap without any work on my part.) It continued raining all day, which meant that the children were housebound and forbidden to play games for fear of disturbing the Sabbath calm and the religious scruples of the neighbours. So I gathered the family around the kitchen table and told them the story of Noah and the flood; although I wondered afterwards, noting the look of rapt attention on Adam’s face, if it had been a wise choice. There was never any knowing what was going on in that devious little head of his.

But no Sunday, however dismal, can last for ever, and by Monday morning the weather had improved. Daybreak brought sun and gently steaming cobbles, and even the men who rattled into the city on their carts to clear the drains sounded cheerful as they called to one another or returned greetings with people already abroad in the streets. The night-soil man actually made an early appearance, apologizing for his absence on Saturday, which, he said, had been caused by a bad back. I grunted to Adela that I wished I had a groat for every time I’d listened to that excuse, but she hushed me quickly. As a woman, she knew that there were certain people who should never be antagonized.

I ate my breakfast of dried herring and oatmeal biscuit, then grabbed my cudgel and whistled up Hercules ready for the long uphill trudge to Clifton. The strangeness of leaving my pack behind still irked me and made me feel guilty, but as Adela sensibly remarked, the sooner I found the answer to this particular problem, the sooner I would be free to pursue my rightful calling. I kissed her soundly and told her she had more faith in my abilities than I had, at least in this particular case, but she only laughed and retorted that modesty didn’t become me.

‘On your way!’ she ordered, before sitting down at the table and beginning the arduous task of binding new broom twigs on to the ash sapling handle that had served her as the mainstay of her besom for so long.

I had recently found in a pile of street rubbish an old, very long leather belt that must once have belonged to an extremely fat man. It proved ideal as a new lead for Hercules, with the buckle end lightly fastened around his neck and the other coiled around my wrist. He was at first inclined to resent this tougher and wider restriction against his throat and strained angrily at the leash all the way across the Frome Bridge and along the Backs; but by the time we reached the open ground above the straggling streets and houses that had proliferated beyond the city walls, he was trotting along quietly and proudly and looking disdainfully at other dogs confined simply by a piece of rope.

We climbed past the summit of Saint Brendan’s hill and then further up until finally, hot and breathless — well I know I was — we achieved the plateau of land to the east of the great gorge. After yesterday’s rain, it bid fair to be a fine day with a promise of that warmth so characteristic of an English spring, when the weather has not quite made up its mind that winter is past, but can’t help hinting at summer joys to come. Still slumbering trees brooded over sun-dappled grass, distances shifted in the soft morning haze and a ragged string of geese rose, gobbling, into a pale green sky. There were plenty of fellow travellers already on the road; pedlars like myself, a party of mummers probably moving on from the house which had given them shelter throughout the winter months, people with baskets and carts of vegetables or driving animals, all of them heading downhill to Bristol in its marshy bed, hoping to sell them at market. Two stalwart churchmen sailed like a couple of black swans through the early mist.

The manor of Clifton lives up to its name; the cliff town perched on the edge of Ghyston Cliff, the great rock face on the Bristol side of the gorge that rises sheer from the bed of the River Avon. It still being very early, and not wishing to disturb Emilia Virgoe’s slumbers, should the old lady not feel the urge to rise at the crack of dawn, Hercules (long since let off his leash) and I made our way to the great tump, about a quarter of a mile from the edge of the cliff. Here we sat down and from my satchel I produced the hunk of rye bread and scraps of meat that Adela had given me. There was also a piece of cheese wrapped in dock leaves, but Hercules turned his nose up at that, so I had it all to myself. Then we both stretched out on one of the grassy mounds of the tump and let our tired limbs slowly recover from the rigours of the climb.

The tump is a strange place, full of ghostly echoes. Some say that our Celtic ancestors used it as a fort until the Romans drove them out and turned it into a look-out post from which they could survey the river and its approaches, so that raiding parties of Welshmen shouldn’t take them by surprise. Then there are other wilder stories that the mound was built by either the Saracens or the Jews. Ridiculous, of course, but these odd notions take a hold in the minds of country people, often gaining ascendancy over the far more likely, rational explanations. And then there’s the legend of how the gorge itself was hewn out of living rock by the two giants, Goram and Vincent, using one pick which they threw back and forth to one another until the latter accidentally killed the former, and spent the rest of his life in prayer and good works in order to atone.

The memory of this tale reminded me that if I walked down a narrow cliff path I would come to Saint Vincent’s chapel and hermitage, perched high above the gorge like a nesting bird, where Hercules and I might be offered a drink of water and I could make enquiries as to the whereabouts of Mistress Virgoe’s cottage. It turned out that the path was narrower and slightly more dangerous than I had supposed, viewing it in the past from the ground, and rather than risk Hercules plunging to his death over the edge, I carried him in my arms. This proved to be a mistake as he wriggled indignantly throughout most of the descent and I was forced to grab on to the pitifully inadequate rope railing, fastened to the cliff face, with all my might.

The hermit, whose abode was a cave alongside the tiny chapel, greeted us without much enthusiasm; a thin, ascetic-looking man with untidy strands of hair plastered to his otherwise bald pate, watery hazel eyes and rheumatic joints. Very much, I suppose, as you would expect a hermit to be, except that this one seemed to bear a grudge against the world in general and against me in particular for disturbing his morning rest. He took an immediate dislike to Hercules, whom he bade me leave outside, which I refused to do.

‘He’ll be over the cliff edge as soon as I take my eyes off him,’ I protested, ‘and I’m fond of him.’ I was suddenly conscious of the fact that this was true. ‘Besides, I won’t trouble you long. I just want to know where I can find Emilia Virgoe.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

The man smelled offensively, a sour mixture of dried sweat, vomit and old food. The cave was a shallow one, going back only six or seven feet into the rock face and containing nothing but a straw mattress covered by a moth-eaten grey blanket, a couple of pots for cooking, a tinderbox and a knife on a shelf near the entrance. The man’s brown robe was stained with food and various other marks on whose origin I preferred not to speculate. Living in such circumstances, perhaps anyone would be short-tempered and suspicious. On the other hand, living close to God and contemplating the work of His creation was surely intended to make one humble and happy.

‘I wish to ask Mistress Virgoe some questions,’ I said.

The hermit sneered. ‘About that strumpet, Isabella Linkinhorne, I suppose. Oh, don’t think we haven’t heard about the discovery of her body up here! News travels fast where death and scandal are concerned.’

‘Scandal?’ I queried innocently.

‘That girl was a disgrace,’ he declared viciously.

‘You were acquainted with her?’

‘I knew her. I was about her own age and lived on the manor. She was brought up to be a decent, God-fearing girl, and could have had a decent, God-fearing husband had she so chosen. Instead of which, she preferred the ways of Satan.’

Oho, I thought, so you were after her, too, my lad, were you? Except, of course, he was no longer a lad, but a sad, middle-aged man who had embarked on the life of a solitary as a shield against his bitterness and frustration.

‘So,’ I said, ‘these men I’ve been hearing about really did exist, did they? They weren’t just figments of other people’s imaginations? Jonathan Linkinhorne told me that Isabella always denied them.’

‘The man is a fool!’ the hermit rapped back violently. ‘He and his wife believed what they wanted to be true — until it was too late and Isabella had gone. They ignored what everyone told them because they were too old to face up to unpalatable facts.’

‘Did you ever see Mistress Isabella with one of these men?’

‘With all three at one time or another.’ My companion’s voice was full of loathing and resentment, yet tinged with a longing that indicated more clearly than his previous contempt just what his true feelings had been.

‘Where did you see them?’

‘I had an aunt who lived near Westbury College. She’s long dead, but in those days I often used to walk over to see her.’ More often than was necessary, I surmised. ‘Westbury was a convenient rendezvous for all three men to meet Isabella. I’m sure one of them came from Bristol, but not having been there for many, many years I wouldn’t know if he were still living there or not.’

‘And the other two?’

The man shrugged. ‘From round and about. No one I ever spoke to seemed certain of their origins. There was talk of Gloucester and Bath, but whether that was true or not, or just guesswork on the part of others, I had no means of knowing.’ The skinny chest swelled. ‘I did once try reasoning with Isabella, when I met her in Westbury village, but she laughed at me and her companion threatened me with his riding crop and told me to mind my own business or he’d lay it about my sides. I was so incensed that when I returned to Clifton, I went straight to Master and Mistress Linkinhorne and laid the facts before them.’

‘And?’

The hermit’s face darkened with anger. ‘They refused to listen. Accused me of being like everyone else who attempted to make them see reason. Accused me of trying to destroy Isabella’s reputation because she had refused my suit. My suit! I had never offered for the trollop!’ Only because he had had a good idea of what, and how scathing, the answer would be, I was sure. ‘Besides, I was already experiencing a calling for the religious life.’

Hercules, whom I was still holding, nudged my face with his cold, wet nose to remind me that we had been stationary for long enough and that it was high time we were moving. I scratched his ears with my free hand and gave him a little squeeze.

‘Had you taken up your office of manor hermit before Isabella disappeared?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘The job didn’t fall vacant until three or four years after that. When the old hermit died, Lord Cobham offered it to me, knowing from his chaplain that I had a religious bent and had no intention of marrying.’

I moved the few steps towards the cave mouth, as if about to leave, but turned back at the last moment as though struck by a sudden thought.

‘Did you, by any chance, happen to see Isabella at any time on the day she vanished? On the day, I suppose, we now know that she died.’

There were a few seconds of complete silence, while the hermit made up his mind whether or not to answer my question. The narrow face was a battleground of conflicting emotions before he finally replied hoarsely, ‘Yes, I saw her.’

‘What time of day?’

‘Around mid-afternoon, perhaps. It was a cold, wet day. Grey skies, overcast, so difficult to tell. And twenty years is a long time ago.’

I agreed, but persisted. ‘Do you happen to remember exactly where you saw her?’

‘She was on horseback, riding down the village street. I tried to catch her eye, but although I’m fairly certain she’d seen me, she pretended she hadn’t and continued on her way. Off on one of her gallops, I thought to myself, to meet one of her men. I used to think that if only I could get her to listen to me, I could show her the error of her ways. But she’d never give me the chance.’

I wasn’t surprised. I could imagine this man twenty years ago; self-righteous, priggish, intolerant, always trying to convert others to his own narrow point of view. I’d met people like him many times in my life and never warmed to any of them.

‘Can you recollect what Isabella was wearing?’ I asked him.

The hermit shrugged again; a favourite gesture it seemed.

‘A cloak probably. I’ve told you, it was cold and wet. A typical March day. At least, I think it was March.’ He considered this statement for a moment or two, then nodded, as though satisfied. ‘She was wearing a cloak,’ he added, just as I thought he was going to jib at telling me anything further. ‘I remember she had the hood pulled well forward, but I knew it was Isabella because I recognized her horse.’

‘You didn’t recognize the cloak she was wearing?’

‘Her cloak?’ He looked affronted. ‘I’ve never taken much notice of women’s clothes.’ He immediately belied this statement by continuing, ‘It was that dark blue cloak of hers with the scarlet lining. It was billowing all around her, like a great sail. Why she hadn’t fastened it properly I don’t know. It would have stopped the wind blowing her skirt up and showing her legs in those red silk stockings and green leather garters she was wearing.’ For one who took no interest in women’s clothing, it occurred to me that he had noticed a very great deal. He confirmed this by repeating, ‘Red stockings, I ask you!’ His tone was scathing. ‘With that gown!’

It was at this point that Hercules finally managed to squirm free of my arms and perform the trick he always tried whenever he was annoyed at being kept waiting: he cocked his leg against mine and peed all down my boot. The hermit suddenly proved that he had a sense of humour — of a sort — and burst out laughing. In fact he was doubled up with mirth and appeared in imminent danger of having a seizure.

I grabbed the miscreant and left.