10 - The Goldsmith's Daughter (9 page)

‘Very well! Very well! Mistress Perle, Ginèvre and Gregory Napier were to share our supper with us, and the shop was shuttered and locked before they arrived. Being December, it was almost dark by four o’clock, and I felt that I should lose very little custom by closing an hour or so earlier than usual. It was, in any case, very nearly time for the curfew bell.’ He took a breath and then continued, ‘The meal had been laid here, in this room, with the best napery and cutlery and the set of silver plates that I made for my poor wife when first we were married. The very
finest
silver, you understand, from the mines at Kuttenberg, which lie somewhere between Prague and the borders of Muscovy, or so I’m told. And, as on all festive occasions, each member of the family had his or her especial goblet.’

‘Especial goblet?’ I queried.

For answer, my companion got to his feet, went to the door and opened it. ‘Isolda!’ he shouted. ‘Come here, if you please. I want you!’

There was a short delay, then I heard the patter of feet descending the second flight of stairs from the floor above. Isolda’s voice asked, ‘What’s the matter, Father?’

‘The key, girl! The key to the corner cupboard, let me have it.’

There was the chink of metal against metal as Isolda slipped the key from the ring attached to her girdle; then, having come back into the room and again shut the door, Miles proceeded to unlock the fretted panels of the corner cupboard, behind which could be seen the gleam of gold and silver. He stooped to one of the lower shelves and, when he stood upright once more, he was holding a crystal goblet with a silver foot and stem and a carved golden rim, very like the one from which I had drunk at Crosby Place. He carried it over to the fire and handed it to me.

‘This is mine,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘If you look carefully, you will see amongst the chasing around the lip my initials, M.B.’

Turning it slowly and reverently between my hands, watching as the flames from the fire struck myriad rainbow-hued sparks from the crystal bowl, while a hundred reflected lights burned deep in the heart of the golden rim, I saw amidst the carved bunches of grapes, gambolling nymphs and trailing swags of vine leaves the intertwined initials M and B, just as my host had claimed.

‘I see them,’ I said. ‘Master Babcary, this is as beautiful a piece of craftsmanship as I have ever beheld.’

A faint flush of pleasure mantled his cheeks, although he must have been used to such praise, and from far greater connoisseurs of the goldsmith’s art than I was.

‘It’s one of six,’ he told me. ‘And I hope that one day it will be one of seven.’ He went on, by way of explanation, ‘When I was first married, I embellished two goblets as a wedding gift for my wife; one with her initials carved into the rim, the other with mine. Then, when Isolda was born, I decorated another such goblet for her as a christening present. When my nephew and niece were orphaned and came to live with me, I did two more, and, finally, the following year, one for my son-in-law. Susannah’s I have put away at the back of the cupboard and no one uses it now, but I am hoping to replace it soon with one bearing the initials B.B. For Barbara Babcary,’ he added, in case I was in any doubt as to his meaning.

‘And each member of the household uses his or her own goblet,’ I murmured.

‘Not every day! They are not for everyday use,’ he reproved me. ‘They are taken out only on special occasions.’

‘And Mistress Perle’s birthday was just such an occasion,’ I suggested.

‘Of course! The five goblets were set out on the table along with others that I keep for guests.’

‘I understand. Pray continue,’ I urged.

‘After the shop was closed for the night, and all the merchandise removed from windows and locked away, we retired to our bedchambers to change into our Sunday clothes before the guests arrived; all, that is, except my daughter, who was still downstairs in the kitchen, helping Meg prepare the food. It . . . it was very unfortunate that this should have been so, but you’ve seen Meg Spendlove, Master Chapman, and can probably guess that she is not the most reliable of servants. But Isolda won’t hear of turning her out, and says it’s not important that Meg is simple because she – Isolda – prefers to keep an eye on everything herself.’ He sighed. ‘And that is true. My daughter is a most efficient housekeeper.’

‘You say you all retired to your bedchambers. Where are these rooms situated, sir?’

My host bent down and threw another log on the fire. Some resin caught alight and flared up in a bright blue flame.

‘My chamber is on this floor, next to the room we are now sitting in. Isolda’s room – and Gideon’s room as it also was then, of course – is on the next floor at the front of the house, immediately overhead, while my niece, Eleanor, sleeps in the bedchamber behind it, above mine. Finally, the two rooms on the third floor, beneath the eaves, are occupied by my nephew at the front and Tobias Maybury, my apprentice, in the little attic at the back. Meg has her own bed in a cupboard in the kitchen.’

‘And do you know at what time Mistress Bonifant eventually came upstairs to change her gown?’ I asked.

My companion’s mouth suddenly shut like a trap and he began drumming with his fingers against the arms of his chair. He looked distressed and uncomfortable, and, to my mind, was silently debating whether or not to lie.

I leant forward. ‘Master Babcary,’ I pleaded, ‘you must tell me the truth if you want my help in finding an answer to this mystery. Concealing what really happened won’t benefit either you or your daughter, and falsehoods may result in my pointing the finger of suspicion at an innocent person. I feel sure you wouldn’t want that.’

For a moment or two he made no answer, merely passing his tongue between his lips as if they needed moistening. At last, however, he said reluctantly, ‘I heard Isolda come upstairs just as our guests knocked at the outer door. She must have come in here to check that all was well, because as I quit my room she left this one. We passed each other, she going towards the upper flight of stairs as I was going towards the lower.’

‘Did she say anything?’ I asked.

Again there was that hesitation while he once more considered the advisability of a good round lie. But he decided, sensibly, against it.

‘Isolda told me that everything was ready, that the table was set and that she had poured wine into the goblets so that we could drink Mistress Perle’s health as soon as we were all assembled. She said that there was only the food to bring up from the kitchen, and she would help Meg with that whenever we decided to sit down to eat, but she thought I might want to give Barbara her birthday present first.’

‘Did you make any answer?’

Master Babcary lifted suspicious eyes to mine, patently uneasy that I had made no comment on the information I had just been given.

‘I think I agreed with her, then went downstairs to the shop to let in our guests.’

‘Did you meet anyone coming up?’

Master Babcary shook his head. ‘No, I told you that with the exception of Isolda, everyone had already retired to his or her room to change into Sunday clothes.’

‘Not everyone,’ I pointed out. ‘Meg Spendlove was still below.’

‘Oh, Meg! Meg doesn’t count, surely! What reason would she have to murder Gideon? Besides, as I said, her bed is in the kitchen. She’d have no reason to go upstairs until the food was called for.’

‘In a case of murder,’ I retorted, ‘I’ve found it wise to discount no one. Meg might have had some cause to dislike your son-in-law, hate him even, that the rest of you know nothing about.’

My companion shrugged and got up to light the candles in a branched candlestick of latten tin that stood in the middle of the table. The January day was growing dark outside, with rain now drumming steadily against the window panes. ‘Oh, as to that,’ he replied, resuming his seat and drawing it a little closer to the fire, ‘I can tell you that there was no love lost between them. Gideon was a man who put great store by good order and hard work. Now, Meg is hard-working enough, and more than willing to do her fair share of domestic chores if supervised and treated kindly, but she tends to be untidy and careless if left to her own devices. Her slatternly ways irritated my son-in-law, sometimes beyond endurance, and he could never understand Isolda’s tolerance in the matter. There were disagreements between them on the subject. I won’t call them quarrels, because Gideon was a difficult man to quarrel with, simply folding his lips and walking away when any one of us did something that angered him.’

‘And had there been any unpleasantness between him and Meg in the days before the murder?’ I asked.

My host frowned. ‘I don’t think so; nothing, at least, that I can recollect. But then, I have so many calls upon my time,’ he added self-importantly, ‘that I probably wouldn’t remember. You must quiz the women about that sort of thing. Those events loom larger in their lives than they do in men’s.’

‘But was there any chance,’ I persisted, ‘that while you were welcoming your guests and letting them into the shop Meg could have crept upstairs and put poison in your son-in-law’s wine? For I am assuming that that was what happened, that the monkshood was put into Gideon’s cup as it stood, unattended, on this table.’

Master Babcary shivered and then nodded, his pomposity draining away as he contemplated the terrible climax of that December evening.

‘I can’t honestly say that I saw Meg during the time before Mistress Perle and I, together with Master and Mistress Napier, came up here to the parlour. But that doesn’t mean,’ he added musingly, ‘that she couldn’t have slipped upstairs and down again without anyone noticing, for we stood a few minutes in the shop exchanging greetings while they all took off their cloaks, and the two women removed their pattens.’ He looked a little ashamed of this sudden about face, but I could well understand that he would rather the blame for the murder was laid at Meg Spendlove’s door than at his daughter’s.

‘What happened next?’ I asked. ‘Who was here and who was absent when you and your guests entered this room?’

Miles screwed up his face in an effort of concentration. ‘Gideon was here and Toby – Tobias Maybury, my apprentice – and . . .’ he paused, willing himself to remember. ‘And Nell and Christopher. Isolda made her entrance a few moments later. As I’ve told you, she had been the last one to go to her room to change.’

‘So what happened next?’ I prompted, as Miles seemed disinclined to proceed with his story.

He shivered and held his hands again to the flames. ‘Next, I gave Mistress Perle her birthday gift. A jewelled girdle,’ he went on unnecessarily, as though anxious to postpone reaching the awful moment of the murder as long as possible, ‘of pale blue leather, studded alternately with Persian sapphires and Egyptian turquoises. She was delighted with it’ – as well she might be, I thought – ‘and I could see that Mistress Napier was very envious of her friend.’ (A fact, I decided, that must have given the gift added value in the eyes of Barbara Perle.)

‘And then,’ I said, ‘presumably you all drank Mistress Perle’s health?’ My companion nodded mutely. ‘And that was when your son-in-law died?’

‘Yes.’ Miles’s voice was so low that I had to strain my ears to catch the word.

‘Can you remember exactly what happened?’

‘I shall never forget it as long as I live.’ He raised his eyes from contemplation of the fire, where a woodlouse was just escaping as fast as its legs could carry it from the terror of the flames, and looked directly into mine. ‘I went to my accustomed place at the head of the board and raised my goblet. “To Mistress Perle,” I said. “May she have long life and happiness.”’

‘I’m sorry, but I must interrupt you yet again,’ I apologised. ‘Do you always sit in the same order around the table?’

‘We are creatures of habit,’ he said, ‘as, in my experience, are most families. Every household has its own little rituals, its simple jokes and allusions that mean nothing to outsiders.’ Master Babcary was more astute than he looked. ‘When we are on our own, I always sit at the head of the board, with Isolda at the foot. My nephew sits to my right, beside Tobias, and opposite him, to my left, his sister. When . . . when Gideon was alive, he sat on the same side of the board as Nell, between her and his wife. But that evening, with company present, Isolda had arranged the table so that she was on my right hand, and, alongside her, Gideon and then Nell. Mistress Perle was seated to my left, Gregory and Ginèvre Napier, in that order, to
her
left. Christopher was at the foot of the table. Toby, as on all occasions when we entertained, would take his meal with Meg, downstairs in the kitchen.’

‘So it was Isolda who directed you where to sit?’ I asked, and Miles Babcary reluctantly agreed. ‘You said she also set the table, so would she have made sure that each of the family goblets was correctly placed?’

Once again, a muttered and reluctant assent was wrung from my host, and I felt that it was hardly surprising Mistress Bonifant had been suspected of her husband’s murder. Indeed, the surprise was that, even with the power of the King being brought to bear on her behalf, she had never been charged with the crime. On the other hand, there was one vital question that I had not yet posed, and the answer to it might make a world of difference. I was not, however, ready to ask it for the moment.

‘You all went to the table and took your places, after which you raised your goblets, already filled with wine by your daughter, and proposed the birthday toast to Mistress Perle. What then, sir?’

‘What then? Why, we drank, of course.’

‘Did Master Bonifant collapse at once?’

‘Not immediately. We all sat down – we had been standing to drink Barbara’s health, you understand – except Isolda, who left the room to go down to the kitchen. The rest of us began to talk: Master Napier and I about the new tariffs that the Poitevins have imposed on the exports of silver from Melle; and the women about such items of gossip as were current last December, whatever they may have been. Gideon was exchanging a few remarks with Christopher, which surprised me because they had been somewhat at loggerheads for the past few months, when suddenly he struggled to his feet, trying desperately to get his breath. Neither could he swallow; his throat and lips were stiff as boards and his face was turning blue. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a terrible croaking sound. I’ll never forget it. It will haunt me until the day I die.’ And Miles Babcary covered his eyes with his hands.