‘For I didn’t, and still don’t, believe Isolda guilty of such a crime,’ she said belligerently, jutting her chin and daring me to question her judgement. ‘There has to be another explanation, and if people weren’t so bigoted, they’d see that for themselves. Friends and neighbours who’ve known her all her life must know that she isn’t capable of killing anyone. It isn’t in her nature.’
Such blind faith made me uneasy. ‘How did Master Bonifant die?’ I asked.
‘He was poisoned.’ Mistress Shore sounded defiant, as well she might. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking! That poison is a woman’s weapon.’
‘It’s easier for them to use than either the dagger or the cudgel,’ I pointed out. ‘On the other hand, I’ve known women who have resorted to both those methods, and men who have administered poison. They say it’s a favourite means of despatching enemies in Italy. Do you know what poison was used?’
Mistress Shore hesitated. ‘I think it was aconite, monkshood, or so Miles Babcary informed me. I’m not sure how he knew. I suppose the physician or the apothecary who was called recognised certain symptoms.’
‘Undoubtedly. I believe it causes burning pains in throat and stomach, and the victim has great difficulty in swallowing. The muscles of the neck stiffen, and after ten minutes or so, breathing becomes impossible.’
Jane Shore gave a little shiver. ‘How horrible! But there were other people in the house as well as Isolda. It might have been one of them. I believe that Christopher Babcary didn’t get on well with Master Bonifant. They had had many disagreements.’
‘Do you know why?’
My hostess did not reply at once, looking down at her hands, clasped in her lap. Finally, after a few moment’s silence, during which the only sounds to be heard were the old dog’s wheezy snores and the crackling of the fire on the hearth, she raised her head and looked me in the eyes.
‘Master Chapman, I must be honest with you. The King doesn’t wish me to be too closely concerned in this business. Until my kinswoman’s name is cleared, he prefers that I have nothing to do with the Babcary household.’ She sighed. ‘I can understand that. He feels that he has done enough by bringing his influence to bear and preventing charges being brought against Isolda. Therefore, if I give you my cousin’s direction in West Cheap, you would earn my deepest gratitude if. . if-’
‘If I were to confine all my enquiries to the family, and not bother you until I have reached a conclusion,’ I finished for her.
She smiled mistily at me. ‘Indeed, I feel ashamed of making this condition, but I cannot bring myself, at this difficult time, to go against His Highness’s wishes.’
‘And how will the Babcarys like me poking and prying about? Do they even know of my existence?’
‘Yes. Yes, they do, and all of them are anxious for your assistance. They want to know the truth as much as I do.’
It occurred to me that there must be one person who already knew the truth and whose welcome would be a sham: the murderer. But I said nothing. Instead, I rose, kissed the little hand that was offered me and promised Mistress Shore that I would do everything in my power to discover who had really killed Gideon Bonifant.
Five
I recognised the place at once. It was the house where Adela and I had seen the lazy apprentice being scolded from an upper window by his bespectacled master.
Following Mistress Shore’s directions, I had walked almost to the end of West Cheap, where, at the Church of Saint Michael at Corn, it joins Paternoster Row to the south and the Shambles to the north.
‘Look for a shop and dwelling close to the Church of Saint Vedast,’ she had instructed me. ‘A representation of two angels is painted on the plasterwork between the third-storey window and the roof. I sent to my cousin this morning to warn him of your arrival. You will be expected.’
So there I was, a pallid winter sun struggling to break through the leaden clouds, my cloak and boots splashed with mud and filth from carts driving too near the central gutter, my ears deafened by the babel of street cries — ‘Hot sheep’s feet!’ ‘Ribs of beef!’ ‘Clean rushes!’ ‘Pots and pans!’ ‘Pies and pasties!’ and dozens more. Every few yards of my journey from the Strand, hands had clutched at my sleeves and whining voices had assailed my ears, pleading for alms. Some beggars were hale and hearty, others hideously disfigured, either by nature or by the cruelties of civil punishment and war, and all excited pity. I gave what I could, but there were too many suppliants, and eventually I had been forced to ignore their importunities. I reached my journey’s end with some relief and entered the shop.
A long counter faced me as I stepped inside, and beyond this was the workroom. A youth, the same boy I had seen three evenings since, was working the bellows at a furnace built into a wall, while the same elderly man was admonishing him in an exasperated tone.
‘No, no, no, Toby! A light pressure, if you please! You want to fan the coals gently into flame, not blow great clouds of smoke out through the vent to choke the passers-by! Good God, lad, don’t you ever attend to any of the instructions that you’re given?’
Another man, not so very much older than the apprentice, was hammering out a piece of gold on an anvil, which stood on a bench in the middle of the room. As I watched, he laid down the hammer and picked up a pair of tweezers, beginning to pull and tease the hot metal into shape. Near at hand lay a chisel and a rabbit’s foot, while further along the bench were what looked like a pair of dividers, a saw, a file and a number of small earthenware dishes. An array of other tools was ranged along a shelf to my right.
It was the older man, whom I rightly guessed to be Miles Babcary, who saw me first, bustling forward in the hope of a sale, his face falling ludicrously as soon as he noted my homespun apparel.
‘Master Babcary?’ I asked, holding out my hand. ‘I’m Roger Chapman. Mistress Shore told you, I think, that I should be coming?’
I judged him to be about sixty (he later told me that he had not long celebrated his fifty-eighth birthday), a ruddy-cheeked, somewhat corpulent man with thinning grey hair in which gleams of chestnut brown could still be seen. His pale blue eyes, magnified by the spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, blinked at me, owl-like, but at my words, his kindly features brightened.
‘So she did! So she did! Walk around the counter, Master Chapman. You are more than welcome. We shall be very glad, believe me, to have this hateful business cleared up once and for all. You can have no idea what it’s like for my daughter to be whispered about behind her back.’
‘Master Babcary,’ I warned, ‘I may not be able to arrive at any firm conclusion. Or. .’ I hesitated. The elder of the two younger men had now drawn near and was listening intently to our conversation. I continued, ‘Or I might reach the wrong conclusion as far as you’re concerned.’ I saw from Miles Babcary’s slightly puzzled expression that he did not fully understand my meaning, and I began to flounder. ‘What I mean is. . WhatIam trying to say. .’
The young man came to my rescue. ‘Are you suggesting, Chapman, the possibility that my cousin Isolda might really have poisoned her husband?’
Both his age and a fleeting likeness to Miles told me that he must be the nephew, named by Mistress Shore, if my memory served me aright, as Christopher Babcary. I nodded, and there was an immediate explosion of protest from his uncle.
‘No, no! I won’t have it! My dearest girl could never have done anything so terrible! Master Chapman, you are here to prove her innocence.’