16 - The Three Kings of Cologne (29 page)

So I made myself scarce, walking slowly and carefully, so as to tax my bruised limbs as little as possible, through the awakening town and across the bridge to Redcliffe. But however early I was, Jack Nym was always up and about before me, and that morning was already loading his cart with bales of red Bristol cloth from Master Adelard’s weaving shed, assisted by Jack Hodge. The latter’s round, freckled face, so like his father’s, was shiny with the sweat of his exertions, Jack being happier directing operations rather than actually lifting and heaving.

He became aware of someone watching him and swung round, a pugnacious expression on his narrow features, but which cleared when he saw who it was. He inspected my face curiously.

‘Somebody been teaching you a lesson, Chapman?’

‘Such as?’ My tone was acerbic. My present delicate condition was no subject, I felt, for levity.

The carter grinned. ‘Oh, such as keeping your nose out of other folk’s business.’

‘I’m in no mood for funning, Jack,’ I retorted, and both he and Jack Hodge snorted with laughter.

‘What do you want, then?’ Jack Nym condescended to shoulder one end of a bale and help throw it on top of the others already in the cart.

‘I want a word with you. In private,’ I added, as the younger man’s head lifted eagerly, scenting a secret or some scandal with which to regale his mother’s ears when he got home.

‘Well, it’d better be a quick word,’ Jack agreed grudgingly. ‘This lot –’ he indicated the contents of the cart with the jerk of a grimy thumb – ‘is bound for London, which means two or three days, if not more, on the road. And day after tomorrow, I’m sure to be held up by the May Day mummings. You’d best come indoors. No need to worry about my goody. She’s still asleep.’

I had never been inside the Nyms’ cottage before, and decided immediately that once was enough. I would try to avoid the experience in future. The air was redolent of a number of different smells, the least offensive of which were burned food and scorched fat. What the others were I didn’t dare speculate as I felt my stomach heave. Goody Nym was indeed asleep, snoring and huddled against the far wall on a pile of straw that made small rustling noises. Fleas hopped merrily about the extremely stale rushes covering the floor, while a mangy cat sat in the middle of a table, one of whose legs was propped up with a block of wood, cleaning itself in places it would be better not to mention.

‘Come on then, lad,’ Jack said impatiently. ‘What is it you’re wanting?’

‘You recall telling me, when we were at the New Inn, in Gloucester, that someone you’d recently noticed in a crowd had reminded you of an incident, twenty years ago – of seeing Isabella Linkinhorne in the porch of All Saints’ Church with a man?’

My companion groaned. ‘Sweet Virgin, you’re not back at that again, are you? I told you on Monday that I can’t remember nothing. Must’ve been dreaming at the time I said it. Hell’s teeth, Roger, it were a long time ago. Now I must be off. This ’ere cartload o’ red cloth’s bound for the Aldermen of London. It’s urgent and it’s got to be delivered on time.’

I got between him and the door.

‘Don’t lie to me, Jack,’ I said. ‘You’ve remembered, haven’t you? The face you saw on Bristol Bridge, or wherever it was, was Sergeant Manifold’s, now wasn’t it?’

He looked shocked, then started to bluster.

‘No! O’ course it weren’t. No. No. Why should you think that?’

‘Because I’m almost certain that Dick Manifold is “Balthazar”.’

‘Oh, for sweet Jesu’s sake, don’t begin on that nonsense again!’ he exclaimed irritably. ‘It makes my head spin. And shift away from that door. I got to get goin’.’

I stood my ground.

‘When you tell me what I want to know,’ I said. ‘Was it Sergeant Manifold’s face that you saw that day and realized it was the one you’d glimpsed all those years ago with Mistress Linkinhorne?’ I took one or two steps backwards until my shoulders were pressed close up against the wood. ‘I’m not moving from this door, Jack, until you admit the truth.’

He sighed, accepting that I was in earnest.

‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, it were Dick Manifold I saw. But,’ he added imperatively, ‘that don’t prove nothing. It don’t mean it were him with Issybelly that day, and you can’t make me say it was. You try and force me to say so in front of ’im, and I’ll call you a liar to your face.’

‘I’m not going to force you to say anything, Jack. In fact, I’m not even going to mention your name to the Sergeant.’

‘Then what’s all this been about?’ he demanded belligerently.

‘I just wanted to be sure that what I suspected was indeed the truth,’ I answered, not being quite honest myself.

For while I had no intention of revealing Jack’s name to Richard Manifold, I was not above hinting that I had a witness to that long ago meeting in the porch of All Saints’ Church between him and the murdered woman.

‘Well, now you know,’ Jack said peevishly, ‘so perhaps you’ll let me get on with my business. And mind you, Roger,’ he added as I stepped aside, ‘I’m holding you to that there promise. I like to keep my nose clean. Don’t like getting mixed up with the law unless I have to.’

‘Do any of us?’

Jack snorted. ‘Can’t say it seems to bother you overmuch. You’ll poke that big snout o’ yourn into anything. What I say is that one day you’ll regret it, you mark my words.’

I followed him out of the cottage (not without a sigh of relief) to where the younger man had finished loading up the cart and was feeding the horse a wisp of hay from its nosebag. Jack Nym jumped up on the seat and gave the animal the office to start. I watched until they had disappeared round the corner, then turned to bid farewell to Jack Hodge, but he had already gone back to his work at the weaving sheds.

So I went in search of yet another Jack; this time Jack Gload.

He was not in the Councillors’ Hall near the High Cross, nor were Richard Manifold and his second henchman, Pete Littleman. Another of the Sheriff’s Officers informed me – not without a secret snigger, I thought – that the three were holding a special meeting at the Sergeant’s cottage to discuss their latest enquiry – into the theft of some jewellery from a merchant’s house – in peace and quiet, away from the noise and bustle of the hall. I thanked him and made my way towards the castle.

Richard lived in an apartment in the outer ward, rent-free I fancied, a fact which had never endeared him to me, particularly when he was eating my food and drinking my ale or warming himself at my fireside. I asked a passing scullion – not, thank Heaven, Ranald Purefoy – which of the cluster of ramshackle dwellings was Dick’s, and was directed to the one nearest the Barbican Gate, in somewhat better condition than the rest.

I entered without knocking.

The three were seated around a central table, a stoup of ale at each man’s elbow, their heads inclined towards one another, deep in portentous discussion. But at my sudden and unannounced entry, the heads jerked up in surprise and three pairs of eyes stared at me in astonishment.

I dispensed with any sort of greeting, striding round the table and hauling Jack Gload to his feet.

‘You thieving bastard!’ I yelled, not mincing matters. ‘Where’s my purse?’ I clamped both hands around his neck, my thumbs against his windpipe, and shook him like a dog shaking a rat. He made a sort of gurgling sound and cast a frantic look at his two companions.

Stools scraped against the flagstones and fingers clawed at mine in a vain endeavour to loosen their grip. But anger was giving me strength.

I heard Richard Manifold shout, ‘Let him go, Roger! For God’s sake, let him go!’ But I took no heed. It was only when I noticed that Jack’s face was turning from a rich shade of purple to a blotched blue colour that I finally released my victim. He staggered back to his stool, gasping for air and rubbing his throat, while Pete Littleman tenderly administered a few drops of ale.

‘You could have killed him,’ Richard Manifold accused me.

‘I was only doing the hangman’s job for him,’ I snarled. ‘That villain stole my money.’

‘I … It was a joke,’ Jack croaked. ‘I-I wasn’t goin’ t’ keep it.’ He delved into his own purse and flung a handful of coins across the table. ‘Have that t’ go on with. I’ll fetch the rest when I go home. I’m sorry!’

I refused to be mollified. ‘And what was the purpose of this stupid joke?’ I made another threatening movement in his direction and had the pleasure of seeing him flinch.

‘That’ll do, Chapman,’ Richard ordered, interposing himself between my quarry and me. ‘All right, it was a foolish prank to play, I’ll give you that. But Jack’s apologized.’

I said nothing for a moment, then asked dulcetly, ‘A prank, Sergeant? Are you sure that’s all it was?’

My abrupt change of tone disconcerted him. ‘Wh-what do you mean? Jack’s just told you it was meant as a joke.’

‘That’s right,’ Jack Gload confirmed, while Pete Littleman nodded in agreement.

‘Really? A joke was it?’ I regarded all three with narrowed eyes and what I hoped was an air of contained menace. ‘Is that so? Well, perhaps it’s escaped your notice that I have recently taken a beating, although somehow I don’t think it has. None of you would miss a thing like that.’

‘Thought your wife had given you a good hiding,’ Pete Littleman muttered with a grin, but didn’t get the response he was obviously hoping for.

‘Be quiet!’ Richard ordered sharply, while Jack Gload took a hurried gulp of ale without even so much as a smirk distorting his ugly features.

‘How … how did it happen?’ the former enquired solicitously. ‘Who … who did it?’

‘You know very well who did it,’ I snarled, changing my tactics yet again and returning to the attack. ‘Your friend and neighbour, Sergeant, Ranald Purefoy! How much did you pay him, eh?’

The shock of the question made Richard gasp and turn white, which only infuriated me more. Did he, in his arrogance, really think me so dim-witted that I couldn’t piece together his pathetic little plot?

‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying,’ I rasped, ‘that you’ve been trying to persuade me to drop my investigation into the death of Isabella Linkinhorne. First, you sent Jack after me to Bath, on the pretext of visiting his daughter and her family, but really to convince me that it was foolish to pursue the matter.’ I gave a derisive snort to demonstrate my contempt for such a piece of folly. ‘But if he failed to do so – which the idiot was bound to do – he was instructed to detain me on the road home so that he could report back in good time for you to arrange some other, surer form of deterrent.’ I laughed. ‘Instead, all it did was to make me certain that what I was beginning to suspect was indeed the truth. That
you
are the man I’m looking for.’

‘What’s he mean, the man he’s looking for?’ Pete Littleman asked ponderously. He was brighter than Jack (not much, but a little). ‘You told us it was to stop him gettin’ in the way while we solved the Linkinhorne murder.’

‘And so it was. Is,’ Richard said quickly. He drew himself up, suddenly the superior officer. ‘You and Jack can leave. Now. I want to talk to Master Chapman alone. You’ve caused enough trouble with your childish pranks.’ I saw Jack Gload’s mouth open in an O of astonishment, but Richard hurried on without giving him a chance to voice his indignation. ‘Out! This minute! I shan’t tell you again. You’ll be charged with indiscipline.’

‘All right! All right! We’re going,’ Pete muttered, but his expression was mutinous. ‘Come on, Jack. I’ll buy you a drink to ease that throat of yours.’ He glared at his superior. ‘We’ll be in the Green Lattis when you’ve finished talking to the Chapman. Alone!’ And he hooked a hand under his friend’s elbow, hauling him to his feet.

When the cottage door had closed behind them, Richard sank slowly on to one of the vacated stools and waved me to another. He looked pale and dejected, but most of all angry with himself, as if he knew that he had bungled things. To my annoyance, I found myself beginning to feel sorry for him.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ I asked, after several moments of profound silence. ‘You knew Isabella Linkinhorne.’

Richard nodded. ‘But I didn’t kill her,’ he added fiercely, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Then why have you tried so hard to conceal the fact that you were acquainted with her? Even to the extent of hiring a bully like Ranald Purefoy to beat me black and blue on the insulting charge that I’d been attempting to seduce his wife. Goody Purefoy! Dear, sweet Virgin!’ My temper was getting the better of me again, and I made an effort to be calm.

Even Richard was unable to suppress a fleeting grin, but it was gone almost immediately, like a glimpse of sun through clouds.

I said, ‘You haven’t answered my question. Why did you go to such lengths to prevent me finding out you’d known Isabella Linkinhorne?’

He threw me a glance of dislike. ‘Oh, use your common sense, Chapman! I’m a man of the law. A well respected one, at that,’ he couldn’t stop himself adding, his natural arrogance reasserting itself. ‘I didn’t want to be mixed up with a murder, even one that will probably never be solved. Not even by you.’

‘Especially not if you were the murderer,’ I suggested, sitting down on one of the other two stools.

His head reared up at that, his jaw jutting angrily. He half rose to his feet.

‘What exactly do you mean to imply by that?’

‘I’m not implying anything. I’m simply stating a fact. It seems that one of Isabella’s three swains killed her. It’s just a question of discovering which one.’

Richard, instead of losing his temper as I had expected, suddenly looked discomfited.

‘Until Isabella’s body was found three and a half weeks ago and all the enquiries began, I wasn’t even aware that there had been other men in her life. I really thought I was the only one. I loved her,’ he added simply, like a lost, bewildered child, so different from his usual air of self-consequence that I felt as acutely uncomfortable as if he had suddenly decided to strip naked in front of me. ‘I had absolutely no reason to kill her or to wish her dead. You must be able to see that, surely.’ His natural conceit was beginning to take hold again.