“She will not be told. I give you my word.”
“Hold to it, Osbern. Or you may rue the consequences.”
The reeve paid him his fee, thanked him for calling and showed him out. Mastering his anxiety and remembering his duties as a host, he went into the solar to find Ralph Delchard sitting there on his own with a glass of wine.
“Has he still not returned, my lord?”
“No,” said Ralph. “But do not worry about Gervase. He is well able to take care of himself.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“Your doctor stayed much longer on this visit, I see. Golde tells me that this is his second visit today. Is Helto a conscientious physician or was he simply in search of double the fee?”
“He came became of his concern for Eadgyth,” replied the other.
“She has a delicate constitution and there have been problems in the past. She buckles under strain and anxiety. Helto advises that I keep her close for two more days at least and guard her against hearing the rumours about Bertha.”
“They are more than rumours.”
“Not according to Helto.”
“Then why has the sheriff initiated an inquiry?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“It is because of Brother Martin’s evidence. He and Gervase discussed the case in detail. I agree with them.”
“I hope you are wrong. For my wife’s sake.”
“And for Bertha’s, surely?”
“That goes without saying, my lord.”
Ralph recalled his earlier conversation with Golde. It made him probe gently for information about the dead girl.
“Eadgyth must have loved Bertha dearly.”
“She did, my lord. Bertha was a girl of rare qualities.”
“Did she have other friends?”
“Many of them.”
“Admirers, too, I imagine. If she was as comely as report has it, every young man in the town must have doffed his cap as she passed. And licked his lips in anticipation. Tell me,” said Ralph artlessly. “Did she have one special admirer?”
“No, my lord.”
“A beautiful damsel like that? No swooning youth? No dashing swain? No secret lover?”
“She had neither time nor inclination for that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw a great deal of her. She was often at the house to talk with Eadgyth. When the baby came, Bertha was as delighted as we were. She more or less lived with us for a week or two. It was a difficult time. My wife was exhausted and not able to look after the baby as fully as she would have wished
Bertha was a second mother to it.”
“Perhaps because she pined for a child of her own. By the secret man in her life.”
“I think it highly unlikely, my lord.”
“You only saw what she wanted you to see, Osbern. Maybe she confided in your wife. Maybe she told Eadgyth about her hidden passion.”
“She did nothing of the kind,” said Osbern firmly.
“You seem very convinced of that.”
“I am, my lord. Eadgyth would have told me.”
“Not if Bertha had sworn her to silence.”
“My wife holds nothing back.”
“Even the most intimate confession of a friend?”
“Even that,” insisted the reeve. “When man and wife are joined in holy matrimony, they commit themselves to each other without reserve. Is that so with you?”
“Indeed.”
“And would your own wife not tell you everything?”
“I hope not!” said Ralph with a hearty chuckle.
“You shock me, my lord.”
“I expect her to love, honour and obey me but I do not wish to climb inside her head and watch every thought that passes through her brain.” Ralph gave a shrug. “If a close friend unburdened her heart to Golde, it would be a betrayal if my wife then ran to me with the tale.”
“It would be a betrayal of you if she did not!”
“We see it differently.”
“I think we do, my lord.”
“I still believe that Bertha must have aroused great interest among the young men of the city. They are not blind. They probably followed her in droves.”
“They would not dare.”
“Why not?”
“Because of her father.”
“Alwin? Would he object?”
“Most strongly, my lord. He was very strict with her.”
“A sailor?” said Ralph with amazement. “Such men are not known for their celibate disposition. They are drawn to their occupation out of a sense of adventure rather than because of any monastic leanings. Is Alwin so devout?”
“No, my lord,” said Osbern. “But he made a solemn vow to his wife when she lay on her deathbed. To his credit, he has honoured it ever since.” He chose his words with care. “Bertha’s parents had a troubled marriage. I do not know why and it was not my business to find out, but Eadgyth spoke of arguments she overheard between husband and wife. This is not to say that Alwin did not love his wife,” he added. “He worshipped her. When she became sick, he nursed her devotedly. At the last, she made him promise to keep their daughter on the path of virtue and shield her from the temptations to which the young are often prone.”
“How could the sailor do that when he was often away?”
“Bertha was left with a neighbour at first. When she grew older, Alwin took her with him on his voyaging.”
Ralph blinked. “She crossed the Channel with him?”
“A number of times.”
“Then she had a braver heart than mine. I will fight against any odds on land and meet the strongest foe without a tremor.
But do not ask me to sail in rough water. I did that when we took ship on the eve of the Conquest. I still have nightmares about those heaving waves.”
“Bertha is a sailor’s daughter,” reminded Osbern. “Her whole family has been tied to the sea. Two of her uncles have boats of their own, another is a shipwright, a fourth is a wharfinger in Fordwich. Bertha was born to it.”
“Then she, too, must have had the spirit of adventure. Might it not have led her into some secret romance?”
“Alwin watched her too closely.”
“Not when she went to Harbledown.”
“Bertha was unlikely to go astray at a leper hospital.”
“No,” said Ralph with a grin. “She would be in no danger from Brother Martin. I can see why her father must have encouraged her charitable work.”
“But he did not, my lord.”
“Oh?”
“It was the one thing on which they disagreed. Alwin tried to stop her going. Mixing with lepers carries all sorts of dangers.
He was no doubt fearful that she might contract the disease herself. But she was adamant. Bertha had a strong will.”
“Strong enough to defy her father, it seems. Could it not also have prompted her to defy him in other ways?”
“No, my lord.”
“I begin to wonder.”
“We knew Bertha too well.”
“Did you?”
“She would have never have kept something as important as that to herself. She would have confided in Eadgyth.”
“Yet you say she did not do that.”
“I am positive.”
“Could you not raise the matter with your wife?”
Osbern was hurt by the suggestion. “When she is in such distress? It is hardly the time, my lord. Helto has counselled me to try to keep Eadgyth’s mind off this tragedy. Why should I take the opposite course and induce further pain?”
“Because she might provide a vital clue.”
“Clue?”
“To the identity of Bertha’s secret admirer.”
“There was no such person.”
“There was no murder, according to you,” said Ralph. “But Gervase and I have seen the evidence and think otherwise. So does the sheriff or he would not have ordered his officers to look into the case. Let us suppose that there was a killer.”
“Impossible!”
“What could have been his motive?”
“There was none. Bertha was liked and respected by all. Nobody had any motive to take her life.”
“Nobody you know,” persisted Ralph. “That is why we must look for someone whom you do not know. Some shadowy figure in her private life.”