Kate Sedley - The Three Kings of Cologne

‘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.

It was not until I reached the top of the path that I realized my original question had remained unanswered. The hermit had failed to tell me where I might find Emilia Virgoe. This, however, proved to be no problem as the first person I encountered, a smiling countrywoman in a brown homespun gown and a snowy-white hood and apron, immediately directed me to the nurse’s cottage.

This stood a little apart from the village, set back from the track known generally as Stonelea; a track that led eastwards and downwards to Bristol in the vicinity of Steep Street. Somewhere near the beginning of the descent the road divided, the left-hand fork being the approach to the village of Westbury which, in all probability, I would be taking later. But not before I had had a word with Mistress Virgoe.

Judging by the height of the sun, the morning was by now well advanced, and I was afraid she might be out and about, gathering wood for her fire or looking for mushrooms that had sprung up in the fields overnight after the previous day’s wet weather. But I need not have worried: Emilia Virgoe was at home, clearing away the remnants of her seemingly frugal dinner. There was no smell of cooking, no pot over the fire and only a crust of bread and a rind of cheese on the plate remaining on the table.

She was a small woman, neat, compact, with a pair of intelligent brown eyes in a wrinkled, weathered face, a short, straight nose and thin lips that curled upwards at the corners as though their owner was ready at any moment to break into a smile. Jonathan Linkinhorne had told me that she was well over sixty, and there was nothing to contradict this statement in the badly gnarled hands that were clasped composedly in front of her once she had opened the cottage door to my knock. But in spite of the wrinkles and knotted joints there was an indefinable air of youthfulness about her that I have noticed in some old people. Spry is the word that I think best described her.

‘Yes?’ she queried. ‘And what do you want, young man?’

I explained as clearly and succinctly as I could, but I need not have feared for her powers of understanding. She listened quietly, her head cocked slightly to one side, and at no time did she ask me to repeat myself. When I had finished, she invited me to enter, holding the door wide and stooping to pat Hercules’s head. He licked her hand and at once made himself at home, stretching out in front of the fire on its central hearth and promptly settling down to sleep.

‘He likes you,’ I grinned. ‘He doesn’t take to everybody.’

Her lips twitched. ‘And I don’t take to every dog I meet. But he’s a nice little fellow. I knew it the second I set eyes on him.’ She saw me looking at the bread and cheese and quietly removed the plate to a broad shelf near the water barrel, then told me to sit down on one of the two stools drawn up to the table. She took the other, facing me, and asked with the same composure she had shown throughout, ‘Now, what is it you want from me? You say you’ve spoken to Master Linkinhorne, so what more can I tell you?’

I countered with a question of my own.

‘Were you shocked to hear the recent news of the discovery of Isabella’s body?’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘You have heard, I assume?’ I did a quick calculation in my head. ‘Now I come to think of it, it’s only four days since she was found.’

The brown eyes lit with amusement.

‘My dear — Roger, did you say your name is?’ I nodded. ‘My dear Roger,’ she went on, ‘how long do you think it needs for such tidings to reach as far as Clifton? We are not living on the moon. The news was all over the manor by Friday morning, and as Sister Walburga had by then identified the remains as those of Isabella, I was naturally one of the very first to be informed.’

‘So … were you shocked?’

Emilia Virgoe hesitated before saying primly, ‘Of course.’

I regarded her severely. ‘Shocked, yes. Naturally. But surprised?’

There was a longer pause, and I sensed my hostess’s sudden discomfort.

‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked at last.

‘The truth would be helpful.’ Then, feeling that this was a little blunt, if not downright rude, I added meekly, ‘Please.’

She gave me a swift smile that puckered the corners of her eyes, but faded to leave her looking sad and somewhat apprehensive.

‘No,’ she admitted at last. ‘Not surprised.’

I leaned my elbows on the table. ‘Mistress Virgoe, did you suspect that Isabella could have been the victim of foul play at the time of her disappearance?’

She delayed her answer by getting up and taking two beakers and an earthenware jar from a wall cupboard and bringing them back to the table. When she unstoppered the jar, the pungent scent of elderflower wine teased my nostrils and I knew that unless I managed to restrain my natural appetite, I should be in trouble. There are fewer drinks more potent, at least in my experience, than elderflower wine brewed by enthusiastic old ladies. The dames themselves usually regard it as harmless, even after it has been stored and allowed to ferment throughout the winter; just a refreshing draft to revive you, they say. Never believe them! It can lay you out flat, to be followed by a splitting headache.