[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents (32 page)

'I hear the outlaws have been taken,' I said, breaking my silence, 'but that they deny the murder of Andrew and Mary Skelton.'

Grizelda snorted. 'So I, too, have been told. That and the death of the mummers. The two most heinous crimes they have been charged with and which have people baying for their blood.'

I said, giving careful weight to my words, 'I have discovered that Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis were not mummers, but jongleurs. As well as playing instruments, they also sang. At least, one of their number, a former member of their troupe, who left them some years ago, did so. And very sweetly, if the porter of this town's East Gate is to be believed.'

Grizelda paused in her kneading and glanced up in perplexity.

'You twist and turn too much for me, Roger. I've lost the thread of your discourse. What has one of the Tomes gatekeepers to do with these mummers? And with one in particular, who, you say, left the company some time since.'
 

'Jongleurs; I insisted for a second time. 'The porter knows this man, and has supped with him, on occasions, at Matt's tavern, in the Foregate. A man who also has a very special talent' - I recollected Ginèvre's words and added - 'either from God or from the Devil.'

There was a moment's utter stillness. The evening shadows lengthened across the inner courtyard and crept in through the kitchen doorway. Grizelda seemed briefly turned to stone, like someone who had looked upon the head of Medusa.

Then, with a little laugh, she once more resumed her kneading.

'You mean that this man - this mummer or jongleur, whatever you choose to call him - has settled here, in Totnes?' She sounded incredulous.

I nodded. 'I do. And I note that you do not ask the nature of his peculiar talent. But then perhaps you already know it.' I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, but Grizelda did not answer. I went on, 'This man has the strange gift of being able to speak without moving his lips. Not only that, but he can also make his voice sound as though it is coming from some way off; from the mouth of another person; from above, below, beside or behind him. I saw this art practised once, when I was a child, in the market place in Wells, and I have never forgotten it. It was like magic; although that man's skill was not so great I fancy as that of Eudo Colet, who can also mimic other people's voices.'

Once again, there was complete silence in the kitchen, except for the bubbling of the stew in the pot. Grizelda reached for the cloth and wiped her hands, carefully peeling the clinging dough from between her fingers. At last, she asked in an expressionless voice, 'Are you saying that Eudo Colet is this man?'

'Yes. And you see what this means.' She did not answer, but looked at me with eyes as flat and opaque as pebbles. 'It means that he could well have murdered both Andrew and Mary Skelton before he left the house to visit Master Thomas Cozin. The children's voices which Bridget Pranle and Agatha Tenter heard belonged to him. Even when, according to Bridget, Eudo Colet stood at the foot of the stairs and called up to them, and Mary answered, it was all illusion. Mary was dead by then, and so was her brother.'

Grizelda continued to stare at me as though she were in a trance, then, with a sudden movement which made me jump, hunched her shoulders.

'You seem very well informed,' she snapped. 'Who told you all this?'

'I've been to London and back during the past two weeks.

I went to see Mistress Napier.'

'Ah! Ginèvre!' Grizelda's eyes went blank again, making it impossible to tell what she was thinking. After a moment, however, she said, 'But when Eudo Colet returned from Master Cozin's, the children had vanished. How did he dispose of their bodies?'

I drew myself away from the wall and stood upright, easing my shoulders.

'On the face of it,' I acknowledged, 'that appears to be a difficulty not easily resolved.' I walked towards the table and, leaning across it, plucked at Grizelda's sleeve. 'This blue gown,' I said 'is very well-worn. I've never seen you wear another, not even for the hocking. Jack Carter, who let me ride in his wagon as far as Exeter, told me that you had never had many clothes; that you were treated scurvily by your cousin, who rarely gave you any of her cast-off gowns.'
 

'So?' The colour flared in Grizelda's cheeks. I had touched her pride; the pride which had so often been ripped to tatters by her treatment in the Crouchback household. 'Finery has never meant much to me. I was content with the little I had.'
 

'Yet when you quit this house, you left two gowns behind, in that chest in the room that you shared with the children. Don't deny it, because I saw them.'

'Poking and prying, were you? That appears to be one of your less pleasant habits.' The dark eyes had lost their blank look and burned with anger, but almost immediately their fire was dimmed, as Grizelda took herself once more in hand.

'I was very upset that morning, after my quarrel with Master Colet. It was hardly surprising that I failed to take everything with me. By the time I discovered my omission, it was too late, and I was not going to go cap in hand to Eudo Colet and ask his permission to retrieve them. Well? Are you satisfied?' Slowly, I shook my head. I leaned forward once more, the palms of ray hands pressed against the top of the table.

'Then why,' I demanded, 'if you had so few garments, and if two of those had been left behind, was your box so heavy?

Why was Jack Carter, having dragged it downstairs, forced to call for the stableman to help him load it on to his wagon?' She did not answer my question, but I saw her eyes suddenly dilate with fear. 'I'll tell you why, shall I?' I persisted, leaning even closer, until my face was within an inch of hers. 'Your box was so heavy because it contained the bodies of Andrew and Mary Skelton.'

The rabbit stew, so long untended, bubbled over and quenched the flames of the fire with a boiling hiss, but neither of us heeded the clouds of steam nor the stench of burning meat. I doubt if we even noticed them at the time. It was only afterwards that I was aware of having heard the one and smelled the other.

It seemed an eternity before Grizelda spoke, although I suppose it was no more than moments.

'So!' she said; and, quite unexpectedly, she smiled. 'Now, how have you reached that conclusion, Roger?' I straightened my back and folded my arms across my chest.

'There is,' I said, 'no other explanation. You didn't hate Eudo Colet, nor he you. From the first moment of seeing each other, you felt a mutual attraction, although I suspect his passion for you was not as great as that of yours for him. He was, after all, quite content with his position as Rosamund's husband. Her determination to marry him must have seemed like the consummation of all his dreams; the very summit of good fortune. He was not anxious to endanger that position by responding too keenly to your advances.

Indeed, for his sake, it was better that the two of you should not appear too friendly. More than likely, Rosamund was jealous of him. But he liked women, had a reputation for it, and in secret, your friendship blossomed. He confided to you the history of his life before he met your cousin; and no doubt, he also entertained you with examples of his strange, but fascinating talent.'

A tic appeared in one side of Grizelda's face, the side where she had the scar.

'Go on,' she ordered.

'You hated your cousin,' I said. 'Perhaps not without good reason. She and Sir Jasper treated you from the beginning like a servant. You were their kinswoman, of their blood, but in their eyes, your poverty outweighed any such consideration. Your pride, however, would not let you complain. You could not admit your grievances to the outside world, so you pretended that all was well; that Rosamund and you were as close as sisters. Even when she deliberately pushed you out of a tree and your face was scarred for life, you told everyone it was an accident and that you fell. Am I not right?' Grizelda reached for a stool and sat down before replying.

'Maybe. Maybe not. Go on, tell me more. Tell me about my part in the children's murder.'

I took a deep breath. 'Eudo Colet is a weak man, easily influenced for good or ill by minds stronger than his own. It was his misfortune that fate cast him in the path of a woman with a bent for evil, and whose resentment of her cousin and her cousin's children had turned, over the years, first to dislike and then to loathing. You. For I would be prepared to wager that Andrew and Mary Skelton, like most children, were influenced by their mother and aped her treatment of you.

Moreover, they were children who had learned early to dissemble their true nature in front of adults, and who were not the saintly little beings - two little holy innocents as Mistress Cozin once described them to me - that older people thought them.'

Grizelda curled her lip and suddenly spat among the rushes. But, 'Go on,' she said once more.

I did so.

'To repeat myselt, you fell passionately in love with Eudo Colet, but although he returned your affection, he would not jeopardize his marriage by abandoning Rosamund. Not, I think, that you really desired him to do so, for you wanted your cousin's wealth as well as her husband, and in order for that to happen, Eudo must inherit after her death. No doubt your fertile imagination was already busy with plans of murder, when fate stepped in and relieved you of the necessity. Rosamund died giving birth to Eudo Colet's child. Now all both of you had to do was wait until a respectable time had elapsed. But then you, or perhaps he, realized that you could be even richer if her children were to die. By the terms of Sir Henry Skelton's will, which you knew well, Eudo, as Rosamund's next of kin, would also inherit the money left to them by their father. Plainly they had to be disposed of but in such circumstances that neither you nor he would be implicated. A difficult task, considering that Eudo was the one person who benefited by their deaths.'

Grizelda smiled a slow, secret smile. 'So?' she persisted, after a moment.

'So, you - and I have little doubt from which of you two the idea originally came - suddenly saw how his strange, fairground talent could be put to good use. You formed a plan; a plan which most likely owed its conception to the sudden presence of outlaws in the district. But first, during the two months following Rosamund's death, you carefully fostered the idea of two people growing daily more at odds with one another. For the benefit of Agatha Tenter and Bridget Praule, you quarrelled unceasingly over the children and the running of the household. The pair of you had never admitted to the liking you felt for one another; a precaution necessary, doubtless, for you to keep your place in your cousin's house, and which now stood you in excellent stead.'
 

'You seem to know everything, chapman,' Grizelda remarked with composure. 'But I interrupt. Pray continue.'
 

'The morning of the murders, you went to church. Shortly before he knew you due to return, Eudo picked a violent quarrel with Andrew and Mary; a quarrel which was still in progress as you crossed the threshold. As arranged, you rushed upstairs, leaving Agatha and Bridget cowering down below. The shouting persisted, but now it was between you and Master Colet. Bridget recalls that you called him a wicked, hard-hearted man to bedevil two innocent children so. He replied that you were a harpy who should be tied to a ducking-stool. So it proceeded.' I caught and held her eyes, refusing to let her glance escape mine. 'And it was during that time, that noisy quarrel, that you murdered those two children. I believe that you strangled them. You dared not risk blood, so no knife could be used. To suffocate them might take too long and be unsuccessful. But a ligature or hands around the neck of unsuspecting persons could not fail, particularly if those persons were smaller and more fragile than their attacker. The bodies were loaded into your travelling box, leaving little room for anything else. After that, you ordered Bridget to summon Jack Carter. You were leaving, you said, going home to your holding above Bow Creek.'
 

'And how did I dispose of the bodies?' Grizelda wanted to know.

'You're a very strong woman. At some time during the following weeks, you carried the bodies, by stages and probably at night, down through the woods and some miles along the river bank, where you left them to be discovered by a, passing stranger or a woodsman. But first, you mutilated them in order to conceal the marks of strangulation. You were, however, seen at some time or another by a man who had a grudge against you; a man who had been dispossessed of the roof over his head by your sudden return to your cottage. It was when Innes Woodsman called you an evil woman that you began to see him as a possible danger. Once again, you used the depredations of the outlaws, and the fact that they had robbed your own holding, as a cover for your murderous intent. You let Innes Woodsman use your cottage, telling him that you were sleeping with your friends in the village. You probably left him some of your potent ale, knowing that he would drink himself into a stupor. And while he slept, you set fire to the cottage with him inside it.'

I waited for an expression of guilt or a denial, but Grizelda merely shrugged. 'I'm still listening,' was all she said.

'Very well, but my tale is almost at an end. I've digressed.
 
I'll return to the morning of the murder. When you had departed with Jack Carter and your box - your heavy box containing the children's bodies - Eudo had to play his part.

He had to go downstairs and break his fast, while all the while pretending that Mary and her brother were alive and well upstairs. Bridget Prattle made no mention of hearing them during the meal, but when Master Colet went to fetch his cloak and hat, he was once more able to mimic Andrew's voice and carry on a "conversation" with him. He banged and rattled the bedchamber door to make it appear that his stepson was still in a temper. And, as I have said before, when he returned downstairs, Eudo Colet once again exercised his peculiar gift to persuade his listeners that Mary spoke to him.