As I turned into Bishop’s Gate Street Within, I was forced into the side of the roadway by a bevy of horsemen all wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s blue and murrey livery, the animals’ coats gleaming like satin in the pale spring sunlight. And there in the middle of them was the duke himself, his small, dark face tense between the swinging curtains of almost black hair. (I remembered people who had known the late Duke of York saying that Richard was the only son who truly resembled him).
I withdrew into the shelter of the houses on the left-hand side, hoping to remain unseen, but suddenly the cavalcade came to a halt. The horsemen nearest to me shifted their mounts to allow the duke a passage through their ranks, and I noted with amusement their utter astonishment that the mightiest subject in the kingdom should stop to speak to a ragamuffin such as I appeared to be.
‘Roger!’ He was riding a big, handsome black with white stockings and a pair of flashing, brilliant, imperious eyes. He himself was still dressed from head to foot in deepest mourning and I noticed a network of fine lines around his eyes which had not been there when I last saw him and told of strain. All the same, he spoke cheerfully enough. ‘I was told that you were in London.’
I dutifully bent the knee and kissed the hand he extended towards me, but at the same time snarled, ‘That idiot, Timothy Plummer, I suppose.’
There was a hum of outrage from the duke’s escort that I should speak to him in such a fashion, but he only smiled and went on, ‘You’re lodging near here, I understand. Don’t run away, will you? I may need to send for you. I’m living at Baynard’s Castle with my mother for the time being.’
I muttered something unintelligible and he nodded before riding off, his retinue clattering after him, to vanish through the gates of Crosby’s Place.
My determination to return to Bristol as soon as possible was now stronger than ever. I had to concentrate all my energies on solving this mystery of the Godslove family and discovering what had happened to Celia. Not that I entertained much hope of finding her alive. All my instincts now told me she was dead.
Supper that afternoon was a strange meal without Adela and the children to cheer our spirits. Even Hercules’s absence was mourned: Clemency admitted that she missed his cold, wet nose nudging her for tit-bits.
To begin with, there were only the four of us, Clemency, Sybilla, Arbella and myself, but halfway through the meal Oswald arrived home and took his place at the head of the table. He seemed tired and out of sorts, a condition aggravated by none of us having any news to report of Celia.
He took a few spoonfuls of mutton stew, but refused the freshly baked oatcakes that Arbella offered him.
‘There’s a rumour going around the Inns of Court,’ he said, ‘that the executors of the late king’s will are refusing to administer it so long as the Queen Dowager and her children remain in sanctuary. For the time being, the goods are to be put under ecclesiastical sequestration.’
None of us made a reply to this nor did Oswald seem to expect any. He lapsed once more into moody silence; a silence I finally broke with my information about Adrian Jollifant and the discovery I had made concerning his father.
‘He permitted me to search the entire house, including the cellars,’ I said, stretching the truth only a very little for the sake of brevity. ‘Celia is not being concealed by Master Jollifant, so we can forget him as we can Dr Jeavons.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Oswald retorted grimly. ‘One or the other may already have murdered Celia and buried her body.’
The three women cried out at that and Sybilla, as usual, burst into noisy sobs. I waited for these to subside before pouring myself more wine and looking slowly around the table. Clemency shifted uncomfortably, as though she guessed that something portentous was coming.
‘After your stepmother, the former Widow Makepeace, died,’ I said quietly, ‘I understand that your father engaged a housekeeper, a Mistress Maynard. Tabitha Maynard.’ I hesitated a moment, debating whether to present my next statement as question or fact. I decided on the latter. ‘She had two children. I don’t know what sex they were; if they were two boys, two girls or one of each. But I know that she had them.’
‘A boy and a girl,’ Sybilla burst out. ‘Henry and Luc. .’ Her voice tailed away as she realized that Oswald was glaring furiously at her and had even raised a hand as though to strike her. ‘Oh. . I–I’m sorry.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sh-shouldn’t I have said anything?’ She started to cry again.
‘Why can you never keep your mouth shut?’ Oswald thundered at her.
Clemency hushed him sternly and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘There, there, Syb,’ she comforted the younger woman, frowning at her brother. ‘There’s no reason at all why Roger shouldn’t be told.’ She added significantly, ‘There’s no mystery about it.’
‘No. No, of course not,’ Oswald agreed hurriedly, realizing his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, Sybilla my dear. I’ve had a very trying day and I’m worried out of my mind about Celia.’ He turned to me. ‘Yes, our housekeeper — Tabitha Maynard as you so rightly say — had two children. A boy, Henry and girl, Lucy.’ He forced a smile. ‘May I ask what your sudden interest in them is?’
‘How old were they?’ I asked ignoring his question.
‘Oh. .’ He looked vaguely towards his elder sister. ‘What would you say, Clem?’
Clemency was brisk. ‘When our stepmother died and Mistress Maynard came to look after us, I should say that Henry was about six, a year younger than Oswald. Lucy was a little older, nine perhaps, or ten. Probably ten. She was fifteen when Father and her mother were drowned on the Rownham ferry.’
‘And what happened to them after that? Did they continue to live with you?’
Sybilla nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, they did.’
I moved so that I was looking directly at her on the opposite side of the table. ‘But they didn’t come to London with you, did they?’ I asked gently. ‘What happened to them?’
Sybilla immediately became confused. ‘I. . I. .’ she began, glancing wildly first in her brother’s direction, then at her sister.
Once again, it was Clemency who stepped smoothly into the breach. ‘Neither Henry nor Lucy wished to remove to London, so they decided to return to their mother’s family — a sister or cousin or someone — who lived in the village of St Bede’s Minster.’
‘But-’ Sybilla began, obviously bewildered.
Oswald hissed at her to be silent. ‘Yes, of course. I recollect now that’s what happened. I was only fourteen or so at the time,’ he explained. ‘Clem would have been nearly thirty. That’s why her memory is so much better than mine. But you still haven’t explained your reason for asking these questions, Roger.’
I glanced towards Arbella, sitting at one end of the table, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide with curiosity, the raisin pasty on her plate quite forgotten in her interest in the story. Clemency, ever swift on the uptake, began stacking the dirty dishes.
‘Time to wash up, Arbella,’ she said firmly in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I’ll call one of the girls to help you clear the table.’
The housekeeper flushed resentfully at what amounted to a summary dismissal, but had no option except to obey. She was not the mistress of the house yet, however much she would like to be, and probably knew deep down that she never would be. She moved as slowly as she dared, but in the end, with the maid’s help, she was forced to retire to the kitchen.
Clemency sat down again at the table and regarded me straitly. ‘What’s this all about, Roger?’ she asked. ‘You obviously have something to say that you don’t want Arbella to hear.’
‘Arbella is perfectly trustworthy, you know,’ Sybilla protested in her usual vague, woolly-minded fashion. ‘She’s been with us now for quite a few years.’
‘I’m not questioning Mistress Rokeswood’s character,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she is most reliable.’