[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents (30 page)

'My mistress begs that you'll return with me, sir,' she panted. 'There's something, she says, she has to tell you.'
 

'Then why did she not tell me earlier?' I demanded. 'No, no! She takes me for a bigger fool than she already thinks me, if she believes I'll go back there.'

The girl tightened her grip imploringly. 'Please come with me, sir.' She added confidingly. 'My mistress would never harm a man such as you. Take my word for it! I know her! It would go against her nature. She means what she says. She really does have something to tell you.'

I was unconvinced, but suspected that the girl would suffer if I did not do as I was bidden. For her sake, therefore, I retraced my steps, but not without great misgivings.

My fears, however, proved to be unfounded. Ginèvre had regained her composure and faced me calmly across the table.

'I have been thinking,' she said, 'that the murder of two innocent children is not a thing to be lightly dismissed. There is something, therefore, that you should know about Eudo Colet. Perhaps, after all, he’s in league with the Devil, for he possesses a fiendishly clever talent. Sit down for a moment more, and I'll tell you what it is’

Chapter Nineteen

I made my way to St Lawrence's Lane, to Blossom's Inn - so known locally because its sign showed St Lawrence Deacon surrounded by a wreath of flowers - and called for ale. Then I found a cosy corner and withdrew into the shadows, remote from the press of bodies all about me and the clatter of tongues, speaking in an alien brogue. For in those days, and maybe now, for all I know, that particular tavern was journey's end for carters and carriers from the eastern counties. I had chosen it deliberately, needing to think, and not wanting, however remote the chance, to meet anyone I knew from my own part of the world, who might wish to engage me in conversation.

I managed to secure the end of a high-backed bench, where a party of carders from the fens were renewing acquaintance with much good-humoured chaff; brimming mazers and plates of steaming mutton broth. They had no interest in anyone but themselves, and once I was able to shut my ears to their talk - not difficult considering the thickness of their speech - I focused my thoughts on the events of the previous hour, and more especially on Ginèvre Napier's final disclosure.

'Eudo Colet,' she had told me, 'has the gift of being able to speak without moving his lips And when I say "speak" I mean with clarity, not in the imperfect, muffled way that you or I might, if we tried to do the same. I have seen him, at the fairground, invite an onlooker to stand at his side and make it sound exactly as though that person were talking. I watched him perform this trick many times during the three days that Rosamund and I visited St Bartholomew's fair; for she was so infatuated, from the very first moment of clapping eyes on Eudo, that we returned again and again to gawp amongst the crowds around the mummers' pitch. Until I tired, that is, and grew bored and went off to view the rest of the sights.' 'I have myself seen this sort of trick performed,' I said, 'but not, I fancy, with such skill as you describe.'

'Wait!' Ginèvre had raised one pale hand, its tracery of knotted veins showing up cruelly in the pallid sunlight.

'There's more. Eudo could also mimic other people's voices.

In fact, if you closed your eyes and listened, you could imagine him to be an old man or even an old woman, a crying baby or a young child. It was remarkable - and frightening.'
 

'A child,' I said, and the roof of my mouth felt dry with excitement. 'You say he could mimic a young child?'
 

'I tell you, he was able to copy anyone.' Ginèvre brought her hand down hard on the table-top, her many rings making a dull thud as they struck the wood. 'But neither was that the greatest of his talents.' She had reached out and laid her hand on mine, although I do not think, on this occasion, she was altogether aware of what she was doing. 'He could make his voice sound as though it were coming from a distance.

Once, during the months he stayed here, while Rosamund did her best to turn him into a gentleman - an impossible task, as we have both agreed - I was in this room with him, when I heard my husband speak, behind me. I whirled about, expecting to see Gregory at my shoulder, but he wasn't there.

And when I turned back to Eudo Colet, he was laughing. I was so furious, he never practised the trick on me again, in spite of Rosamund encouraging him to do so. She thought it amusing and very clever, until I warned her that if Eudo fooled people in such a manner when she was home, in Devon, his fairground origins might soon be guessed at. I think the force of this argument must have struck her, for after that, Eudo ceased to exercise his peculiar talents. But take it from me, chapman! I have never met anyone, either before or since, who possessed one tithe of his ability. A gift from God - or from the Devil!'

Her words were still ringing in my ears as I sipped my ale.

The mutton broth smelled good, but for once in my life, I wasn't hungry, in spite of not having eaten for many hours.

I was too excited, and needed to make sense of what I had learned. First and foremost, I now knew, beyond all doubt, that the childish voice which had lured me from my bed, belonged not to the earth-bound spirit of either Andrew or Mary Skelton, but to Eudo Colet. Secondly, that being the case, his knowledge of the damage to his property stemmed from that night, and not from anything he might have seen on a later occasion. And that, in its turn, led me to the conclusion that I was mistaken in believing he had paid Grizelda a visit the night of the second murder. Eudo could have spied Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis anywhere within the walls of Totnes, or indeed outside them, without our noticing him. I had imagined the shadowy figure in the passageway, behind Grizelda. It had been a trick of the darkness. She had not deceived me into thinking that she was there alone.

I heaved a great sight of relief, and found that my hand was trembling so much I was in danger of spilling my ale.

Carefully replacing the beaker on the table, I leaned back in my corner and closed my eyes for a moment, overcome by the realization that my feelings for her ran deeper than I had so far admitted to myself. She held a fascination, an attraction for me which, if it was not yet strong enough to be called love, was nevertheless something closely akin. It was difficult to say exactly where the enchantment lay, for I had met many younger and more beautiful women without succumbing to their charms; although, if I were honest with myself; I knew that I was susceptible to sudden infatuations, quite often for women who felt nothing in return for me.

I opened my eyes again, drank some more ale and considered how Ginèvre Napier's disclosures weighted the evidence in favour of Eudo Colet's guilt concerning the killing of his stepchildren. But as the afternoon waxed and waned, as my table companions paid their shot and left, to be replaced by yet a second gathering of carters, this time from around Norwich, I was still left with the same dilemma which had dogged me from the outset of this case.

My newfound knowledge concerning Eudo made it possible to believe that he himself had killed the children sometime between Grizelda's departure and his visit to Thomas Cozin. Casting my mind back as well as I could, I felt sure that neither Bridget Praule nor Agatha Tenter actually claimed to have seen Mary or Andrew Skelton during that time, but had only heard their voices from. the upper floor. Eudo playing his tricks! Even when he had stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted up to them, 'God be with you,' and Mary had been heard to answer, 'And with you, too!' it could have been nothing but an illusion that the child was still alive. A clever man. A very clever man, who had used his talents for Iris own evil ends. And yet... When he returned to the house, it was Bridget who had been sent to look for the children and summon them to his presence, but, according to her, they could not be found. Alive or dead, they had vanished.

It was a warm night, the April air untouched by chill, the sky soft, deep, and luminous, lit by a thousand twinkling stars, and I slept snugly enough in the hayloft of a barn on the outskirts of Paddington village. My appetite had sufficiently recovered, before I left Blossom's Inn, for me to consume two steaming platefuls of their mutton broth, together with the heel of a loaf and another generous stoup of ale. By the time I awoke the following morning, I was thoroughly refreshed and determined to return to Totnes as soon as possible. I washed and shaved in the stream which watered the surrounding meadows, begged some bread and cheese from the farmer's wife, in exchange for a pack of needles and set off along the dusty highway which led westwards, trusting that, before long, I should fall in with a carter travelling in the same direction.

Once again, my luck held; and in spite of two days when I had only my legs to carry me, less than a week later I found myself approaching Exeter. The carter who had let me ride in the back of his wagon for the past two days, was anxious to be home and had therefore kept up a good pace, with small regard for the bumps and other obstacles of the road, not caring to talk or to stop more than was necessary; with the result that on Friday afternoon, he drew up close to St Catherine's Chapel and the adjacent almshouses, with an hour or so to spare before Compline. As I slid from the back of the cart, from between the bales of linen destined for a local mercer, I thanked him and asked if he knew where the lawyer, Oliver Cozin, dwelt. The man nodded dourly.

'Oh, aye,' he said, 'there's few that don't know Master Cozin in this city.' He eyed me sharply. 'Why would the likes of you wish to speak to a lawyer? Not in trouble with the law, are you?'

I hastened to reassure him that his wagon had not been harbouring a wanted criminal, and was directed to a handsome, half-timbered house near to the West Gate, in Stepcote Hill. My knock was answered by a thin, hawk-like woman, who was plainly the housekeeper, and who would have sent me about my business had I not had the foresight to put my foot between the door and its jamb as soon as it was opened.

'If you will but mention to your master that Roger the chapman desires a word with him, I feel certain that he will see me,' I wheedled. I smiled at her, hopefully.

'Lawyer Cozin's at supper,' she retorted, but I could tell that she was beginning to waver. I smiled again. 'Oh, very well!' she snapped. 'Wait there. But you're not to cross the threshold until I return.'

I gave my word, and she disappeared through a door to her left. I heard the low murmur of voices, followed by an exclamation of annoyance, then a testy, 'What brings him here?' But a moment later, the woman reappeared and gave a jerk of her head.

'In there. The master will see you, but you're to be quick. He's an engagement before curfew in another part of the town.'

I nodded submissively and entered the lawyer's dining parlour where the remains of his supper stood on the long, oaken table. It was a room boasting few concessions to comfort, except for one or two faded tapestries on the walls and a single armchair. It was a room typical of its owner, and just how I had imagined the home of Oliver Cozin would be.

'Well?' he demanded abruptly, and without formal greeting. 'What do you want, chapman? When did you leave Totnes?'
 

'A fortnight since,' I answered, easing my pack from my shoulders and placing it on the floor. 'A day or so before Your Honour was due to return home to Exeter. In the meantime, I have been to London and back.'

'London, eh?' He raised his eyebrows, his attention quickening a little. 'I assume that fact has some significance, or you would otherwise not have mentioned it. Therefore, enlighten me. I haven't all night to spare.'

So I told him all that I had discovered from Ginèvre Napier, the reasoning which had led me to seek her out in the first place and the conclusions I had drawn from what I had learned. Master Cozin heard me out in complete, but attentive, silence, a frown creasing his brow as I talked, and growing deeper by the minute. When, at last, I had finished, he said nothing for a while, staring at the table and gnawing his lower lip. Finally, however, he raised his head and looked at me.

'So!' he said. 'You have been able to discover Master Colet's origins where my brother, Thomas, failed. Understandably, I suppose, when one considers the source of the information. This Mistress Napier, judging by your description of her, is the kind of woman who could be persuaded to part with secrets by a good-looking youth, where an older man would be spurned.'

Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself warmly defending Ginèvre.

'Pardon me, sir, but I think you do the lady an injustice. Firstly, Master Thomas did not go to London himself, but sent a servant to do his business for him. Secondly, Rosamund Colet is now dead, and can no longer be hurt by her secret becoming generally known. But more than that, her two children have been murdered. No friend worth her salt would keep quiet in such circumstances, not if she thought her knowledge could perhaps aid the truth.'

'But does it?' The lawyer drummed his fingers irritably on the table-top, fixing me with an accusing stare. 'I grant you may have proved that Master Colet could have murdered his stepchildren, and then disguised the fact by imitating their voices as though they were still upstairs. Furthermore, I accept your argument that neither Andrew nor Mary Skelton went down to breakfast; that neither was actually seen by either Bridget Praule or Agatha Tenter between the time they arose and the time they disappeared. But you still have not proved to my satisfaction how Master Colet was able to remove the bodies from the house.'