Кейт Седли - The Goldsmith’s Daughter

In return, I heard that their only child, Amice, with whom I had once fancied myself just a little in love, was still a seamstress in the household of the King’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of York, and that she was happy with the young groom of the stables whom she had eventually married. After which, I was invited to share their meal and the three of us sat down to an early supper of beef stew and herb dumplings, a good strong cheese and slices of wheaten bread. The Gentles lived well, if simply.

‘And now,’ asked the butcher when we were all replete and the empty dishes pushed to one side, ‘what do you really want with us?’ He added with a self-mocking grin, ‘Apart, that is, from the pleasure of our company?’

I grinned back at him. ‘It’s a very great pleasure to renew our acquaintance, Master Gentle,’ I said. ‘But, of course, you’re right. There is another purpose to my visit. Do you by any chance remember – or do you know of anyone who might possibly remember – a man, an apothecary’s assistant, by the name of Gideon Bonifant, who once lived in this town? He left here some seven years ago, after the death of his wife.’

John Gentle furrowed his brow in thought, but his wife knew immediately of whom I was speaking. Women are invaluable in matters of gossip, even after such a lapse of time.

‘I know who you mean!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in triumph. ‘You recollect him, John, surely! He worked for Apothecary Bridges, who has a shop in All Saints’ Ward.’ She turned back to me. ‘The shop’s on this side of High Street, but above All Saints’ Church, towards the Bar Gate.’

Her husband shook his head. ‘I know Apothecary Bridges, of course. Who doesn’t in S’ampton? But he’s had so many assistants, and seven years is a long time to remember them all. I don’t recall this Gideon Bonifant.’

Alice Gentle grew impatient.

‘Yes you do, John,’ she insisted. ‘Long-faced, pious fellow with very cold, staring, grey eyes. I never much liked being served by him whenever I had need to go into the shop, which was more frequently than I cared for. I preferred Apothecary Godspeed in French Street, except that he was too often drunk to serve me. He was always saying that he’d give up the ale, but–’

‘Do you remember Gideon Bonifant’s wife?’ I interrupted, afraid that my hostess was about to digress and treat me to a dissertation on the failings of the unknown Master Godspeed.

‘Oh yes,’ was the ready response. ‘She was from All Saints’ Ward as well, but from the poorer part, outside the walls. A buxom enough girl, all the same, when Gideon Bonifant married her, but after a year or so she became ill and just wasted away. A sad sight, she was, by the time she died.’

‘And Master Bonifant, so I understand, couldn’t bear to remain in Southampton any longer, once she was in her grave.’

Alice Gentle raised her eyebrows. ‘And who told you that, pray?’

‘Apothecary Ford of Bucklersbury, in London. He employed Gideon as his assistant when Master Bonifant arrived in the city looking for work.’

My informant frowned. ‘That’s not quite how I remember it,’ she protested. ‘My recollection is there was more to it than that. I rather fancy Master Bonifant left Southampton because there was a good deal of whispering and gossip about him – but I can’t recall exactly what at this distance of time.’

‘Glory be!’ exclaimed John Gentle, laughing. ‘Wonders will never cease! I’ve never known your memory to fail before, girl, in such matters.’

His wife joined in the laughter. ‘No, that’s true enough. There must have been something else occupying my mind at the time of his departure. Seven years ago, you said, Master Chapman, since he left here?’

I nodded. ‘The year of the battle at Tewkesbury and the subsequent death of King Henry.’

‘That would be it then. That was the summer that Amice fell sick of a fever and nearly died.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Master Chapman, but if you want more information, you’ll have to find someone else.’

‘Can you advise me as to who might know the whole story?’

It was the butcher who answered.

‘Apothecary Bridges’s dame is the person you need. She’s an even bigger gossip than my Alice, here.’ He squeezed his wife’s arm affectionately, robbing the words of any sting of criticism. ‘She’d certainly have known what was going on in the life of her husband’s assistant. I’m willing to bet my own on it.’

Once again, Mistress Gentle nodded. ‘And that’s no lie! You’d best go to see her now, lad. They’ll be shutting up shop soon. The evenings are drawing out a little, but not by much. By the way, where are you staying tonight? You’re welcome to sleep here, in Amice’s old bed, if you wish. We’ve only the one bedchamber, but neither John nor myself snores, so far as I know.’

I accepted her generous offer with the proviso that it was only for a single night. If I had to stay longer in the town, I would find myself accommodation elsewhere. But somehow, I did not think that much of a possibility: I felt I was already in possession of the facts and all that was needed now was confirmation of my suspicions. I would set out for Apothecary Bridges’s shop immediately.

I set off up High Street, past All Saints’ Church, towards the Bar Gate, and, following Alice Gentle’s carefully detailed instructions, found Apothecary Bridges’s shop without much difficulty. One mention of Mistress Gentle’s name and I was welcomed effusively by the good lady of the house, who was minding the counter while her husband, so she instantly informed me, was in the back room making a brew of wild basil and calamint for a customer with a bad chest infection – a certain Master Simmons of Blue Anchor Lane.

Such a willingness to impart information augured well. And, indeed, as soon as I made known to her the reason for my visit she was only too eager to reveal all she knew concerning Gideon Bonifant.

‘It’s a long time ago now, as you say, since Gideon was assistant to my dear husband, but I remember him very clearly – and that poor wife of his.’

‘What did she die of?’ I interrupted.

Mistress Bridges pursed her lips. ‘You may well ask. But you’ll be fortunate if you can find anyone to give you an answer. Marion Sybyle was a fine-looking girl when Gideon married her, and they were happily wed for five years or more, although they weren’t blessed with any children, more’s the pity.’

Here she was forced to break off in order to serve a customer, complaining of an upset stomach, with a packet of powdered limestone and chalk.

‘Mix it with a little goat’s milk, my dear,’ she instructed the woman, ‘and swallow it straight down. It’ll do the trick all right.’ She turned back to me. ‘Where was I?’

I jogged her memory, adding, ‘Why did you say “more’s the pity” when referring to Gideon Bonifant’s and his first wife’s lack of children?’

‘Because it might have prevented him having an eye for other women,’ was the censorious reply. ‘Oh, things were fine between them, as I said, for five years or so, before Marion began to get a bit scrawny and lose her looks. She’d been a very pretty young woman – she had three or four lads after her at one time, as I remember – but as she got older, her features started to coarsen. It might not have mattered so much if Geraldine Proudfoot hadn’t come on the scene.’

Another customer arrived for some feverfew tablets and to gossip about a neighbour, leaving me once again to contain my impatience as best I could. Eventually, however, she departed and I was able to resume my conversation with Mistress Bridges.

‘Who was Geraldine Proudfoot?’