Кейт Седли - The Goldsmith’s Daughter

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.