‘I will if I can, sir,’ I assured him. ‘But you must have realised by now that if Mistress Bonifant isn’t guilty, then someone else is.’
Again, I encountered that bewildered stare, and again it was Christopher Babcary who interpreted my meaning.
‘What the chapman is saying, Uncle, is that if Isolda didn’t murder Gideon, then someone else in the house must be the killer; one or the other of us who was present here that day, at Mistress Perle’s birthday celebration.’
This idea, although I could see that it was not a new one to the nephew, plainly had not occurred before to Master Babcary. So absorbed had he been in trying to prove that his daughter was not a murderess that the implication of her innocence had quite escaped him. For a moment he looked as if he might burst into tears, but then pulled himself together, his face taking on a mulish expression.
‘I–I want Isolda exonerated,’ he stuttered at last. ‘She didn’t do it. I know she didn’t. She loved Gideon, whatever he might have said to the contrary. I’m sorry, Christopher, my boy, if it means that you and others fall under suspicion. But if it’s of consolation to you, I don’t believe that anyone who was present here that day is guilty, either. In fact, I’m very sure no one is.’
Christopher Babcary glanced at me, then back at Miles. ‘But it stands to reason, Uncle, that one of us must have poisoned Gideon. Besides himself, there were nine of us in the house that evening, and apart from those nine, no one else could have put the monkshood in his drink. The shop was locked and shuttered as soon as the guests had arrived.’
Miles Babcary put a hand to his forehead, growing more confused by the minute. One half of his mind could not help but acknowledge his nephew’s logic, but the other half refused to accept it. If Miles could have his way, Gideon Bonifant’s murder would prove to have been an accident or suicide; or, better still, the handiwork of a passing stranger who had mysteriously managed to gain access to the house.
I said gently, ‘Master Babcary, we cannot continue to stand here in the shop where every passing fool can gape at us through the open doorway. Can we be private? In spite of talking to Mistress Shore, I am still ignorant of many details concerning this murder.’
‘Yes, yes! Of course! But you must wait a few moments, if you please. Toby, is the gold melted yet? If so, bring it over here immediately.’
The boy lifted a pot out of the furnace with a pair of tongs and carefully transported it to the work bench, his tongue protruding from one corner of his mouth, his young body taut with concentration as he tried not to spill any of the precious liquid. Meantime, Miles Babcary had drawn towards him a thin sheet of copper on which innumerable circles were shallowly engraved; and within each circle a bird or a flower, the figure of a saint, a face or the wheel of fortune was also scored into the metal. It was plainly a mould of some sort, but what purpose was served by the final product — delicate, paper-thin, filigree golden medallions — I could not imagine.
Christopher Babcary, noting my puzzled frown, enlightened me.
‘They are sewn on women’s gowns. They make the material shimmer as my lady walks.’
‘So that’s what it was,’ I said. ‘I’m remembering how Mistress Shore’s robe glittered at the Duke of York’s wedding.’
‘As did every other lady’s gown, I should imagine,’ Christopher amended. ‘We and the rest of the goldsmiths hereabouts sold out of our entire stock of medallions during the preceding weeks.’
His uncle, meanwhile, had been filling the circular moulds with the molten gold, the surplus being caught in a narrow runnel fixed to the edge of the bench. The boy addressed as Toby began to scrape at the lumps and flakes as they hardened, gathering them up and carefully depositing them in some of the earthenware bowls.
‘Where does the gold come from?’ I asked.
‘Mostly from Hungary and Bohemia,’ Miles Babcary answered, removing his leather apron and hanging it up on a nail. ‘These days, it’s brought into the country in the shape of coins, which are thought preferable to the old-fashioned ingots. . Well now, Master Chapman, perhaps you’d like to accompany me upstairs where we can be comfortable, and I’ll tell you all you need to know about this unfortunate affair.’
He paused long enough to issue instructions to his nephew and the boy, Toby, on what needed to be done during his absence, then led the way through an inner door to a passageway beyond. Here, to our right, a staircase spiralled upwards, while, straight ahead, lay what I supposed to be the kitchen quarters. As if to prove my assumption correct, a young girl appeared, entering from the yard at the back and carrying across her shoulders a yoke from which two buckets were suspended, some of their contents spilling on to the flags in great splashes of clear, sweet water.
‘Ah! Meg!’ Miles Babcary beckoned her forward. ‘This is Roger Chapman who will be in and out of the house and shop for a while. He may want to ask you some questions, but there’s no cause to be afraid of him. Just tell him what you know. He won’t get angry or hurt you.’
The girl unhitched the yoke from her shoulders, lowering it and the buckets to the ground before approaching us with such caution that she literally inched her way along the wall, arms outstretched, fingers splayed against the stone.
‘She’s very wary of strangers,’ Miles informed me, but not loud enough for the girl herself to hear. ‘She’s a foundling, and was, I’m afraid, mistreated at the hospital on account of her appearance. She’s also slow of speech and understanding.’ He tapped his forehead significantly. ‘You have to be patient with her.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Meg Spendlove’s her name.’
I held out my hand and said gently, ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Spendlove.’
Her only answer was a goggle-eyed stare. She was so small and thin that it was impossible to be certain of her age, and I doubted very much if even she knew how old she was. (Although Master Babcary told me afterwards that they thought her to be in her sixteenth year as, according to the nuns of the hospital, she had been abandoned, at only a few days old, in the same month that Queen Margaret had invaded in the north.) She was unprepossessing to look at, someone at sometime having broken both her nose and jaw, and the bones having knit together very badly. Because of this, her mouth hung almost permanently open, and when it was shut, she breathed in a painfully wheezing fashion. Contrary to expectation, however, there was a hint not only of intelligence but also of shrewdness in the dark brown eyes, if you took the trouble to look for it.
‘You’re a good girl,’ Miles said, patting her shoulder. ‘Try to remember what I’ve just told you concerning Master Chapman. Now, off you go and finish your work or you’ll have Mistress Bonifant on your tail, and you don’t want another scolding, do you?’
The girl shook her head and went back to pick up her pails, disappearing with them through a second door which, as I later discovered, led into the kitchen.
My host and I proceeded up the twisting stairs as far as the first-floor landing, where two doors were set in the wall, side by side. Miles pushed open the right-hand one, ushering me into what was plainly the family living-room. It was as spacious as the narrow confines of the building would allow, and was, I guessed, the largest chamber in the house. A solid oaken table stood in the middle of the rush-strewn floor, a leather-topped bench, piled with brightly coloured cushions, occupied the window embrasure, and a corner cupboard displayed not the usual collection of silver and pewter ware, but, as was only to be expected, items of gold taken from Master Babcary’s stock. A fire burned brightly on the hearth, a good supply of logs stacked close by, ready to replenish it when necessary. Two armchairs, several stools and a carved wooden chest, which stood against one wall, completed the furnishings.