Someone came out through the doorway of the inn and gave a discreet cough. ‘Do you always allow your servants to speak to you in that insolent fashion, Master Chapman?’ asked a voice that was vaguely familiar, but that I could not immediately place. It was only when its owner moved out of the shadows and into a pool of light made by a wall torch that I recognized, much to my astonishment, the Frenchman, Master Harcourt, who had made the Channel crossing with us.
‘You-you’ve made good time, sir,’ was all I was able to stutter. I didn’t dare look at John, who was no doubt cursing himself roundly for not being more careful in a public place.
It was Eloise who stepped into the breach while he and I were still gathering our wits. ‘Monsieur d’Harcourt,’ she purred, offering him a hand, which he gallantly kissed. She then proceeded to burble away to him in French, which he answered in his accented but perfectly intelligible English.
‘Yes, indeed, madame. I was up before dawn and waiting at the porter’s lodge of the town gate for it to open. But you, yourselves, have not been tardy. I could not have been much more than an hour or so in front of you anywhere on the road. I regret infinitely that I gave you no chance to catch up with me. I would not willingly have foregone such attractive company.’
Eloise simpered. Raoul d’Harcourt might be middle-aged, but he was a good-looking man for all that, and he had what I supposed women meant by ‘Gallic charm’. Frankly, it made me want to spit.
‘Are you staying at this inn?’ I asked abruptly.
He smiled. ‘But of course. It is the only inn for some miles.’ He glanced curiously between John and me, once again kissed Eloise’s hand and turned to re-enter the inn. ‘I shall look forward to your company at supper,’ he said.
I grunted and received an understanding smile for my pains. Eloise said something gracious in French, and John stomped off to the stables to vent his anger with himself on Philip and any unfortunate stable hand who happened to be present. I could hear him roaring away in both English and his own broad-vowelled version of the French tongue as I followed my ‘wife’ indoors.
At that time of year, there were fewer travellers than usual on the roads, and, apart from Master Harcourt, Eloise and I were the only people sitting down to supper in the comfortable room at the back of the inn.
To begin with, I was too preoccupied poking around the contents of my plate in order to find out exactly what it was that I was eating to pay much heed to the conversation of the other two, even though it was conducted in English for my benefit. It was the name of Oliver Cook that finally caught and held my attention.
‘You heard about his disappearance, then?’ I asked, raising my head from the contemplation of a suspect piece of something or other swimming around in my spoon.
Raoul d’Harcourt inclined his head. ‘But naturally. If you remember, I called on you to return Master Armiger’s saddlebag. In any case, Calais is a veritable hotbed of gossip. Nothing happens that isn’t known throughout the town in a matter of hours, and the presumed drowning of one of my fellow passengers aboard The Sea Nymph was of more than just a passing interest to me.’
‘“Presumed drowning”?’ I asked, returning the suspect something to my bowl of broth and absentmindedly watching it sink to the bottom. I raised my head and looked our companion in the eye. ‘Why do you say “presumed”?’
‘Because,’ was the answer, slowly and deliberately given, ‘I am certain Master Cook’s death was no accident. I feel sure in my own mind that he was murdered.’
Fifteen
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked sharply, while Eloise, forgetting to look soulful and beguiling, turned to stare at our supper companion.
Raoul d’Harcourt smiled a little and then pulled from his belt a serviceable-looking knife. ‘This was found on the deck of The Sea Nymph by one of the crew.’
‘And how did you come by it?’ My tone was accusatory.
The smile deepened. ‘He, of course, handed it to the ship’s master, who brought it to me at my inn late last night-’
‘Why did he bring it to you?’ I interrupted fiercely.
Eloise made a little sign to me to calm down.
Raoul d’Harcourt saw and his grey eyes twinkled appreciatively. ‘It’s all right, madame,’ he said. ‘Your husband is naturally curious. The master of The Sea Nymph is an old friend of mine. I have crossed the Channel many times aboard his vessel. You may have noticed that he obligingly delayed the ship’s departure from Dover in order that I might come aboard. So I was naturally the person he thought of when the discovery of the knife was made. The missing gentleman’s brother-in-law (as I understand him to be), the other gentleman of the blue feather and your husband were all strangers to him.’
I leaned back in my chair, pushing my bowl of broth to one side. Eloise frowned at me, indicating that I should drink it up, but I ignored her and concentrated my attention, instead, on the Frenchman.
‘Why did the ship’s master consider this knife of any significance?’ I demanded. ‘It’s an ordinary meat knife, the sort most of us carry. Was there something particular about it that excited his suspicion?’
Monsieur d’Harcourt shrugged slightly. ‘He was uneasy concerning it. That was all he could say.’
‘Why? Anyone could have dropped it. Did it have blood on it? Was that it?’
‘In that weather? With rain lashing the deck?’ The tone was mocking. ‘It would have been washed clean in a moment. No. It was rather that at one point during the voyage he thought some sort of altercation was going on between Master. . er. . the man who has disappeared-’
‘Cook,’ Eloise supplied. ‘Master Oliver Cook.’
‘Thank you, madame.’ Raoul d’Harcourt bestowed a smile on her that had the unfortunate result of making her simper again. ‘Master Cook — Maître Cuisinier — I shall remember. As I was saying, my friend the ship’s master thought he saw some argument going on between Master Cook and two other men, standing alongside him. At the time, he merely presumed that this pair were trying, very sensibly, to persuade their companion below deck and thought no more about it.’
‘Did he see who these men were?’ I asked eagerly, but received only a shake of the head.
‘No. Unfortunately the visibility at that moment was too poor. Moreover, he knew none of the passengers sufficiently well to be able to distinguish one from the other at a distance. Master Cook, of course, he could not help but recognize because of his great size.’
‘And this incident made him suspicious when the knife was discovered. . when?’
‘After you were all ashore and members of the crew were searching the ship for the missing man.’
‘And he thought that Oliver Cook might have been knifed and pushed overboard?’
The Frenchman pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure that my friend had formed that conclusion. He simply felt a trifle uneasy in his mind and so came to me for my advice.’
‘And what was that?’
Here, we were interrupted by the entrance of the landlord and his assistant, bringing the main dish of two plump fowls, stewed in butter, with mushrooms and shallots. My spirits insensibly rose. This was better fare for an Englishman. I was pleased to be rid of a broth whose contents I found extremely dubious and more than a little foreign. (I noticed that Eloise had disposed of hers with relish.)
When the fowls had been carved and served, and the landlord and his assistant had withdrawn, amidst a flurry of what I took to be good wishes for the enjoyment of our meal, I returned to the subject in hand.
‘So what advice did you give your friend, monsieur?’