Kate Sedley - The Three Kings of Cologne

A forlorn hope, however.

‘So?’ Jack urged. ‘What did you find out?’ And when I did not immediately reply, he pressed again, ‘What did this Ralph Mynott ’ave to say for ’imself?’

Such persistence confirmed me in my steadily growing belief that Jack had been sent after me by Richard Manifold to question me and discover what, if anything, I knew.

The Sergeant could have found out from any number of sources — Adela amongst them — that I was on my way to Bath, and, knowing that Jack Gload had a daughter and son-in-law living in the town, despatched him on the most natural of pretexts to follow me.

‘Master Mynott was certainly acquainted with Isabella Linkinhorne,’ I admitted grudgingly, but without volunteering anything further.

‘And?’ the lawman prompted impatiently.

‘And what?’ I knew how to play stupid when required.

‘Is ’e guilty of ’er murder, or not?’

‘Impossible for me to say with any certainty,’ I confessed. ‘But on reflection, I should hazard the guess that he is not.’

‘Mmm.’ Jack shot me a sideways glance. ‘So that leaves this third fellow you were talkin’ about. You gave ’im some fancy name.’

‘Balthazar.’

Jack showed me the whites of his eyes.

‘But you don’t know ’is real name, do you?’ he asked. ‘If truth be told, you don’t know nothing whatsoever about ’im.’

‘I didn’t know anything about “Melchior” and “Caspar”,’ I pointed out, with the purpose of confusing my dim-witted companion, adding with some satisfaction, ‘But I found them, all the same.’

Jack, however, had a simple philosophy; ignore everything you don’t understand and hammer on with what you do.

‘You was lucky with this Ralph Mynott, though. Sort o’ luck you ain’t likely to run into twice. As for the other, the one what lives in Gloucester, you said you knew ’im to be a goldsmith. That were summat to go on in a town that size. Bound to lead you to ’im in the end.’

‘In twenty years, he might have died or moved away.’

‘But ’e ’adn’t,’ Jack pointed out. The argument was unanswerable, so I didn’t attempt it. He continued inexorably, ‘What I’m saying is, Chapman, you know nothing — absolutely nothing — about this third man and it’d be too much to expect that you’re goin’ to strike lucky again.’

‘True,’ I agreed gloomily, trying not to smile. I had no intention of sharing with Jack Gload the one clue to ‘Balthazar’s’ identity that I thought I might have; that little flash of inspiration that had come to me like a sudden ray of light penetrating an otherwise Stygian darkness.

Robert Moresby, Ralph Mynott. Both had the same initials: R.M. And at the same moment that this realization hit me, I recollected Jane Purefoy’s revelation of finding the piece of paper on which Isabella had written three sets of initials, every set the same, with a question mark against each. At the time, I had assumed it was the sort of idle repetition that indicated a preoccupied mind; that she had been thinking of one man, and one alone, and whether or not to marry him. But now it suddenly occurred to me that, by one of those coincidences Fate throws up every now and then, all three men — ‘Melchior’, ‘Caspar’ and ‘Balthazar’ — had baptismal names and surnames beginning with the letters R and M. So the man I was looking for, the final one of the three, most probably was also an R.M. And, if my memory served me aright, he had reddish hair.

I suppose I should have seen the truth, which was staring me in the face, right away, but I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t. I was feeling too smug and pleased with my brilliant deductions to pursue them further, and was wallowing in a veritable sea of self-congratulation.

‘You’ve thought o’ something,’ Jack Gload accused me. ‘I can see it in your face.’

‘That’s just indigestion,’ I told him. ‘Your daughter gave me too much breakfast. Which reminds me,’ I added, glancing up at the sky, ‘it’ll be dinnertime soon. I intend stopping at the nearest cottage and buying whatever the goodwife can spare me. Furthermore, Jack, I have no intention of trying to complete this return journey in one day. I was exhausted yesterday evening by the time we entered Bath.’

But if I had hoped to shake off my unwanted companion, I was again to be disappointed.

‘Couldn’t do it, Chapman,’ he agreed. ‘Didn’t start off early enough today, not after you’d been to visit Master Mynott and Cecily had rolled me out o’ bed. Take our leisure, that’s what I say. Sit down and admire the view sometimes. The Sergeant ain’t expecting me back until tomorrow. And I know a neat little tavern this side o’ Keynsham where we c’n rack up for the night. Belongs to a friend o’ mine.’

My heart sank, but I could think of no way to rid myself of him. Whatever ploy I tried, I could tell that he was going to stick closer to me than a burr to a sheep’s fleece. There was nothing for it but to accept the inevitable and guard my tongue against Jack’s probing questions.

But, somewhat to my surprise, he seemed to have accepted defeat on this point; and while we ate a dinner of black bread, goat’s cheese and buckrams (or bear’s garlic, as some country people call it), washed down with a cup of homemade ale, all provided by a cottager’s wife while her man toiled in a nearby field, Jack did no more than quiz me on various problems I had solved in the past. I was, of course, only too happy to provide him with the details. (Well, I’m only human, after all, and what man can refrain from boasting now and then, especially about past success?) And by the time the soft April evening began to draw in, the sun slowly sinking amidst streamers of pale rose and gold, I was almost in charity with him. We had pursued a leisurely course along the valley floor, stopping to exchange greetings with anyone who spoke to us, and learning such snippets of news as the fact that the Princess Mary had become betrothed to the King of Denmark (not an item of much interest to either Jack or myself, but something for me to tell Adela, nonetheless) and now we were pleasantly tired and ready for our beds.

‘And here’s the alehouse I was telling you of,’ my companion remarked suddenly, indicating a small hostelry set back from the main Keynsham track by perhaps a dozen yards or so.

It appeared clean and wholesome enough with a general chamber behind the taproom where travellers could sleep for an extra charge on the price of a meal, and more again for the hire of a blanket and pillow if they didn’t fancy a night spent only on straw. The food, too, was well enough: a rabbit pottage with boiled orache and rampion added to the vegetables already in the stew. Jack chose a rough red wine to drink, but I stuck to ale; then, it by now being dark and both of us being extremely tired, we adjourned to the back chamber, where we were the only two wayfarers staying overnight.

We didn’t bother to undress. I stowed my satchel beneath my pillow, placed my cudgel where it was ready to hand should I need it, bade Jack a sleepy goodnight and knew nothing more until morning.

It was a cock crowing somewhere, answered by the bark of a dog, that woke me. The early light of dawn was seeping through a very small window, set high in the wall behind my head, but the thing that struck me most forcibly was how quiet the room was. There was no sound of breathing but my own, and none of the snores and gurgling noises that I knew from the previous night’s experience Jack could make. I sat up and turned my head. The straw mattress was empty, the blanket tossed to one side, but while the pillow still bore the impression of my erstwhile companion’s head, of Jack Gload himself there was no sign.