10 - The Goldsmith's Daughter (23 page)

‘So you see’ – my hostess was speaking again – ‘Barbara had quite as good a reason as either Kit Babcary or Isolda to wish for Gideon’s death.’

‘And so had you,’ I thought, but did not say so aloud.

Nevertheless, there was a possibility that Ginèvre might have come to the conclusion that Gideon was better dead than alive. Perhaps Gregory had, after all, decided to defy her and made up his mind that he would try to buy the blackmailer’s silence. She was astute enough to realise that if Gideon agreed, it could result in far more than a single payment, and I guessed that she was too proud a woman to put an end to such a situation by blabbing all to Miles Babcary. Furthermore, it was extremely likely that her husband had already confided to her Gideon’s accusation against his wife and Christopher; an accusation that would immediately point the finger of suspicion at Isolda, leaving everyone else as seemingly innocent bystanders.

But if Gregory or Ginèvre Napier or Barbara Perle was the murderer, where had they obtained the monkshood? But of course the answer to that was simple. From the same source as Miles Babcary: a liniment for aches and pains procured from Jeremiah Page of Gudrun Lane.

I
glanced up to see my hostess eyeing me narrowly. Before she could say anything, however, I asked quickly, ‘Do any of your friends and acquaintances in these parts own a horse and cart, Mistress?’

She was obviously startled by this unlooked-for change of subject, and stammered a little over her reply.

‘No . . . Yes . . . What I mean is that Hugo Perle used to keep both horse and cart in the stables just around the corner, in Old Dean’s Lane. But I believe Barbara sold them after his death. Why do want to know?’

‘Do you have any idea who bought them?’ I went on, ignoring her question and posing another of my own.

‘No. No, I don’t. I’m not absolutely certain that Barbara did decide to sell.’ Ginèvre had recovered her poise and was growing irritable. ‘Although . . . Wait a moment! Now I think about it, I seem to recollect her mentioning that Miles Babcary was the purchaser. Or am I mistaken?’ she added to herself.

‘Have the two families, the Perles and the Babcarys, always been friends?’

Ginèvre swallowed a mouthful of venison, frowning at this continuing diversion.

‘Of course. Barbara is a Lambert by birth and a cousin of the late Mistress Babcary.’

It was my turn to frown. This fact had not previously been revealed by either Isolda or her father. To be fair, it had probably seemed irrelevant to them, but it could account for some of Gideon’s hostility towards the marriage between his father-in-law and Mistress Perle. His late wife’s kinswoman might well exert a stronger influence over Miles than a perfect stranger, who knew nothing of the family’s affairs, would do.

‘Why did you wish to know about the horse and cart?’ my hostess asked, pushing her plate aside with a slice of venison still uneaten. I averted my greedy gaze and explained that I had almost been run over outside her house, but she made little of this. ‘If you were standing in the middle of the thoroughfare, as you say you were, then I’m hardly surprised. People drive recklessly in London, with scant regard for life and limb. I doubt very much if it was a deliberate attempt on your life, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

I had to admit that she was right. I told her of the other two occasions on which I had felt, if not exactly in danger, then threatened by some unseen presence.

‘Yet it seems you were wrong both times,’ she said. ‘On your own admission, there is no evidence of harmful intent towards you on anyone’s part.’

‘No, but there ought to be,’ I blurted out.

Ginèvre smiled shrewdly at me, raising her plucked eyebrows, her thin lips lifting slightly at the corners. ‘You mean that Master Bonifant’s murderer should be trying to prevent you asking any more questions?’ I nodded and she gave her low, throaty chuckle. ‘I take your point. There might, of course, be an explanation, but I must admit that I can’t see . . .’ Her voice tailed away and she stared at me unblinkingly for a moment before shaking her head decisively. ‘No! Impossible!’

‘What’s impossible?’

But she refused to say another word on the subject, resisting all my pleas for her to tell me what was in her mind on the score that she had to be wrong, and that what she was thinking made no sense. And with that I had to be content.

I finished my dinner and took my leave of her, no nearer a solution to the murder of Gideon Bonifant than I had been yesterday or the day before that. I walked as far as the stables in Old Dean’s Lane and questioned a couple of the ostlers there. They both confirmed that Master Babcary had indeed bought the horse and cart belonging to Hugo Perle after the latter’s death, but also assured me that neither had left the premises so far that day. And they pointed to a placid cob, looking over the door of a stall in one corner of the yard, and to a cart lined up with three others against the northern wall. When I told them the reason for my curiosity, both men were unanimous in agreeing that the horse and cart that had so nearly run me down probably belonged to a brewer living in Knightrider Street, who had driven abroad that morning and whose recklessness was a byword in the area.

Once again, my fears had proved groundless. Gideon’s murderer, whether Isolda or another, seemed to feel sufficiently secure to allow me to pursue my investigations unhindered. All the same, I wondered, as I walked slowly back along Paternoster Row, if I were not being lulled into a false sense of security. And what was that impossible something that had occurred to Ginèvre Napier that had not yet occurred to me?

This thought reminded me that I had not so far spoken to Gregory Napier, but I doubted if he were at his goldsmith’s shop in West Cheap or he would surely have returned home for dinner. And if I were truthful with myself, I had to admit that I was in no mood, just at that moment, to listen to a further account of the events leading up to Gideon Bonifant’s death. I needed somewhere to sit and think quietly about what I already knew, and to try to make sense of it all.

I directed my steps towards Bucklersbury. I did, however, make one more call before returning to the Voyager. As I had to pass the entrance to Gudrun Lane in my journey along West Cheap, I decided that I might as well pay a visit to Jeremiah Page and enquire if either of the Napiers or Mistress Perle had bought any monkshood liniment from him lately. A question and a groat to a legless beggar, squatting on his little trolley at the corner of the lane, quickly ascertained the exact whereabouts of the apothecary’s shop, and a few minutes later, I was standing in its dim interior.

Master Page was a small man with a luxuriant auburn beard and a pair of sharp, beady eyes that regarded me suspiciously the second I mentioned the names of Perle and Napier.

‘If it’s to do with the murder of Master Babcary’s son-in-law,’ he snapped, ‘I’ve said all that I have to say on that subject. I told the Sheriff’s officer what I knew – which wasn’t much – at the time. I’m not being dragged into it any further.’

‘I’m making enquiries on behalf of His Grace, the Duke of Gloucester,’ I said importantly.

‘And I’m the great Cham of Tartary,’ was the scathing response.

It took me a few minutes to convince Master Page that I was serious, but in the end I managed it. His manner became a little more unbending, although not by much, and in reply to my original question, he said that nearly everyone in the area who was over a certain age bought his monkshood liniment.

‘And when you’re as old as they are, my young master, you’ll know the reason why. Joints get stiff and painful with the passing years, and my embrocation is the best.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I answered soothingly. ‘Does that mean Master and Mistress Napier and Mistress Perle also buy it?’

‘They might,’ he admitted cautiously. ‘I’m not saying they don’t. But why do you want to know? None of them were implicated in Master Bonifant’s killing. It was that wife of his, or her cousin, or both. I’d lay any money on that, especially after what Gideon confided to me about the pair of them.’

‘Ah! So he told
you
that story as well, did he?’ I asked.

The beard jutted angrily. ‘No story, was it, in view of what happened subsequently? Lucky for Mistress Bonifant that she has a kinswoman who’s leman to the King. At least, that’s
my
opinion for what it’s worth.’

I ignored this remark. ‘When you reached Master Babcary’s shop that afternoon, was Gideon Bonifant dead?’

This time the beard waggled up and down in affirmation. ‘But only just. The body was still warm. However, there was nothing I could do to revive him, so I sent for the physician, who, in turn, called in the Sheriff’s officer. It was too late to make Master Bonifant sick – although that remedy can often do more harm than good because, of course, the throat’s so stiff, it’s well-nigh impossible to make the victim swallow an emetic.’

‘What were the Babcarys and their guests doing when you entered the parlour?’

Jeremiah Page hunched his shoulders. ‘That girl of theirs – Meg I think they call her – was having hysterics, and Miles Babcary was flapping about like a demented hen. The rest were looking as though someone had taken a poleaxe to them.’

‘Even Mistress Bonifant?’

‘Even her,’ the apothecary admitted grudgingly. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Oddly enough . . .’

‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘Oddly enough . . .?’

‘Well . . . It’s just that you’ve made me think; made me picture the scene again in my mind. Most of them, as I said, were staring at Master Bonifant, who was slumped face downwards across the table, as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. But then the younger woman, Master Babcary’s niece, suddenly smiled. I don’t think anyone saw her but me; they were all, as I’ve said, looking elsewhere.’

‘What sort of a smile?’ I asked, intrigued.

The beard twitched from side to side as its owner considered the question.

‘It was very fleeting, you understand. It had vanished in less time than it takes to tell. But I’d say it was a smile of . . . of relief. Yes, that’s it! It was definitely a smile of relief.’

‘You mean . . . as though she were glad that Master Bonifant was dead?’

‘I’d say so, yes.’

‘You might have been mistaken, of course.’

‘I might have been. But somehow I don’t think I was.’

He remained adamant, and I walked the rest of the way back to the Voyager lost in thought. Why would Eleanor Babcary be relieved that Gideon was dead? If she had been in love with him, she should have been deeply upset. But was the apothecary’s interpretation of what he had seen correct? According to him, the girl’s expression had been fleeting, barely long enough for it to have registered as a smile.

My head was beginning to ache by the time I reached the inn. The bitter cold and intermittent showers of sleet were partly responsible, but I was also concerned by my lack of progress. I had accepted the Duke of Gloucester’s request to investigate the death of Gideon Bonifant four days ago, and every passing hour brought the sentencing of George of Clarence that much closer. If only Duke Richard would beg Mistress Shore to intercede for his brother without feeling that he had to offer her an inducement, all might yet be well. But he wouldn’t: that was one thing of which I could be certain.

To add to my worries, there were now only two more days, the second being the day of the tournament at Westminster, before Adela and I were due to meet Jack Nym at Leadenhall market to begin our journey home to Bristol. As things stood, Adela would have to go alone, and while I trusted Jack to take every care of her, the prospect was not one I relished. Moreover, I could well imagine the tongue-lashing I would receive from my quondam mother-in-law when I finally arrived home – particularly if I had not managed to solve the mystery and it had all been for nothing.

The Voyager was quiet when I entered, most of its customers being gripped by a post-prandial lethargy. I made my way to our chamber and found that my wife, too, was lying supine upon the bed and gently snoring. Without more ado, I kicked off my boots and stretched out beside her. Less than two minutes later, I was sound asleep.

It was dark when, with a snort and a violent twitch, I awoke to find Adela sitting beside the fire, watching me in some concern. A tray with the remains of her supper and all of mine, now gone cold, reposed on the floor at her feet.

‘God’s teeth!’ I exclaimed, swinging my legs off the bed. ‘What time is it?’

‘The church bells are ringing for Vespers,’ she said. ‘You must have been asleep for hours.’

I cursed softly. ‘I meant to return to the Babcarys’ shop this afternoon. There are still some questions I want to put to the family.’

‘You’re going nowhere,’ Adela retorted in a very wifely spirit, pushing me back on to the bed. ‘You’re worn out and, Duke of Gloucester or no Duke of Gloucester, you’re remaining here for the rest of the evening.’

I knew that there was no arguing with her in this mood. Not that I was prepared to put up much of a resistance anyway: I did indeed feel worn out. Furthermore, I needed to think or, preferably, to talk things over, so I settled myself once more against the pillows and, when I had filled myself up with bread and cheese and other cold viands from the tray and drunk the ale, patted the empty space beside me invitingly. Adela was only too happy to cuddle up, and understanding enough to accept that I was, at present, in no mood for lovemaking.

‘Tell me what’s troubling you,’ she commanded.

My first and most pressing worry, that she would, in all likelihood, be forced to travel back to Bristol without me, she dismissed as a mere nothing.

‘I shall be perfectly safe with Jack Nym. And even if it weren’t for the children and taking them off Margaret’s hands – for I’m sure she must have had a surfeit of their company by now – I still wouldn’t accept the Duke’s offer for me to remain in London until this matter is satisfactorily concluded. I think you’ll feel far less trammelled on your own.’

I couldn’t argue with her, at least, not convincingly, so I simply gave her a hug. In reply, she sent me one of those half-mocking glances that never fail to remind me of my late mother.