‘Sit down. Sit down, Master Chapman,’ my host invited, with that repetition of speech which I was soon to learn was characteristic of him. I had hardly done so, drawing up a stool to the fire, glad to warm my cold hands at the comforting blaze, when the door opened and someone else came into the room; and before I could turn my head, Master Babcary continued, ‘Ah! Here’s my daughter.’
Isolda Bonifant was not as I had imagined her. Mistress Shore had described her as being plain; plain enough, in fact, to find difficulty in attracting a husband. And indeed, no one could have described her as a pretty woman. Her best feature was a pair of deep blue eyes that returned my gaze with a candid stare, but no trace of resentment at my obvious curiosity. Otherwise, it was a strong, almost mannish face with thick, dark eyebrows, a high-bridged nose and a stern, unsmiling mouth. And yet I was immediately attracted to her. She reminded me in some way of Adela, a woman who, once she had committed herself, would give you her full loyalty and support. I could understand why her father thought her innocent of this terrible crime.
I pulled myself up short with a silent admonition. I knew, none better, that first — and sometimes even second and third — impressions could be deceptive. Master Babcary was making me known to his daughter, and I rose from my stool to return her greeting.
‘Mistress Bonifant,’ I said, bowing. ‘God’s peace be with you.’
‘I hope it may be,’ she answered frankly, advancing into the room. She looked me up and down. ‘You’re a very strange chapman. I’ve never met one before who is intimate with princes and the King’s chief whore.’
‘Isolda!’ Her father’s reprimand was harsh. ‘You won’t talk like that, if you please, while you’re under my roof. Mistress Shore is your kinswoman by blood and mine by marriage. She has done, and is doing, her best to help us. I wish you will remember that without her assistance you could well have been accused of Gideon’s murder.’
Mistress Bonifant shrugged. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had been. At least, by now, I would either have been proved innocent or be dead.’ She moved further into the room, coming to stand beside me, and I saw the dark shadows beneath her eyes. ‘But that still doesn’t explain how the chapman here is acquainted with our cousin.’
And so, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I gave brief details of my history and the circumstances that surrounded my friendship with the Duke of Gloucester. As always, my listeners expressed surprise that I had not chosen to better myself by taking advantage of the Duke’s ever increasing cause for gratitude; and, as always, I reiterated my reasons for not doing so.
‘I like my independence too much, the freedom of being my own master. I want no one set in authority over me.’
Master Babcary admitted that he could see the force of such an argument, and Isolda also conceded that, were she a man, she might feel the same way. Having said this, she begged me to be seated again and brought forward another stool for herself, placing it alongside mine.
‘Well, and what conclusions have you come to regarding the murder of my husband, Master Chapman?’
‘Good Heavens, girl!’ her father protested. ‘He hasn’t been in the house but half an hour, and as yet knows very little of what happened last December. I brought him up here for some peace and quiet and in order to make him acquainted with the facts.’
‘Then I shall stay to help you.’ And Isolda sat down with a rattle of the household keys fastened to her belt.
Miles Babcary must have seen the expression on my face, for he said nervously, ‘Do you think that a good idea, my dear? You are, after all, the one most nearly concerned and. . and. .’ His eyes rolled in my direction, seeking guidance.
Mistress Bonifant laughed suddenly, sounding genuinely amused. ‘And you think it would be better if I didn’t remain to plead my own cause?’
Miles Babcary and I assented with almost one voice.
‘Very well then,’ she agreed, rising to her feet, but just at that moment the door opened for the second time and a young girl came in.
I judged her to be some sixteen or seventeen years old, about the same age as I had learned Meg Spendlove to be, but there all similarity ended. There could not have been a greater contrast than between those two. One was plain — some might even call her ugly — unloved and had probably never known an act or word of simple human kindness until she had come to this house to work. The other was a beautiful, blue-eyed, creamy-skinned peach of a girl, obviously cherished by all who knew her. Miles Babcary’s face lit up at the mere sight of her face, and Isolda went forward to kiss her cheek.
‘Nell, my love, you must be chilled to the marrow. Was it very cold outside? Come to the fire and warm yourself.’
At the same time, Miles Babcary turned to me and said, ‘This is my niece, Eleanor. You have already met her brother, Christopher, downstairs. Nell, my sweetheart, this is Roger Chapman who has been sent to us by Mistress Shore. He has agreed to try to solve the mystery of poor Gideon’s death.’
Eleanor Babcary gave me a smiling, incurious glance, putting back the hood of her cloak to reveal an abundance of chestnut-brown hair. An effort had been made to tame it into two long plaits that hung down over her shoulders, but a profusion of little curls were everywhere escaping their confinement, tendrils that she vainly, if absent-mindedly, tried every now and again to smooth into place.
‘I wasn’t at all cold,’ she said in answer to Isolda. ‘This lovely fur-lined cloak that you and Uncle Miles gave me for Christmas has kept me warm.’ She reached out to take one of Master Babcary’s hands in hers, pressing it gratefully to her cheek.
My host’s smirk of pleasure reminded me of nothing so much as a callow schoolboy who has been praised by a favourite tutor, and my suspicions were confirmed that Eleanor Babcary was the darling of the household. What I was not so sure of was whether she was aware of this fact, or if she used the knowledge for her own advantage. Only time would tell. What was plain, however, was that Isolda, like her father, doted on her cousin, and somehow I did not think her a lady who would be easily fooled by a pretty face and a charming manner.
‘Was Mistress Perle at home?’ Miles Babcary demanded. ‘Did you speak with her? Did she agree to take supper here this evening?’
‘I saw her, yes, and spoke with her.’ Eleanor tenderly squeezed her uncle’s hand which she was still holding in one of her own. The blue eyes filled with facile tears that spilled over and ran down the velvety cheeks. ‘But she still refuses to eat with us, Uncle. She repeated that she thinks it better that she sees us as little as possible until this business of Gideon’s death is satisfactorily resolved. Those were her very words: I took particular note of them. “Until this business of Gideon’s death is satisfactorily resolved.”’
Disappointment and bewilderment were visible in every line of Miles Babcary’s face. ‘Why does she persist in this answer?’ he asked angrily of no one in particular. ‘It’s over a month and a half now since the murder, and still she refuses to set foot across my threshold. Why?’
Neither of the women seemed inclined to answer this question, Eleanor looking sympathetic, but vacant, Isolda closing her lips tightly as if there was much she could have said, but chose not to do so. It was left to me to offer a solution.
‘Master Babcary, your nephew said in my hearing that your son-in-law died during Mistress Perle’s birthday feast, so I presume that the celebration took place in this house?’
My host nodded. ‘That is correct. It was the fourth of December, the feast of Saint Barbara, after whom Mistress Perle is named, and I had invited her to sup with us that evening.’
A slightly foolish smile curled his lips and he sighed sentimentally. I began to understand his attachment to this Mistress Perle. My guess was that he had been courting her, hoping to make her his wife, and that the lady had not been unwilling. Her present rejection of him was therefore all the harder to bear.