‘I told you I thought he was growing suspicious,’ a second voice said, and there was Arbella standing behind the priest. She had come so quietly round the corner of the cottage that I had not even noticed her approach.
‘Mistress Rokeswood.’ I gave a slight bow in acknowledgement of her presence. ‘Or should I say Mistress Maynard? Mistress Lucy Maynard?’
She returned my greeting with an inclination of her head. ‘You may call me Mistress Rokeswood. It is indeed my name. My married name. And I was christened Lucy Arbella.’
This shook me a little. ‘But you don’t deny that you are Lucy Maynard, Tabitha Maynard’s daughter?’
She smiled. ‘No, I don’t deny it. How long have you known?’
‘Not known,’ I corrected her, ‘and not as long as you seem to think. I guessed after Julian Makepeace told me this morning that you were the person who had sold him the ring I bought for Adela; the ring that was supposed to have been stolen from the Arbour by a chance thief.’
At that, her brother jerked his head round to look at her. ‘You fool!’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘What possessed you to get rid of it to someone so well known to the family as the apothecary? Why? When there are so many fences in London who would have bought it from you?’
‘For half its true value,’ she flashed back, adding vindictively, ‘And what mistakes have you made, Henry, that Master Chapman should suspect the truth about you?’
I was happy to enumerate them. I wasn’t sure what the couple’s next move would be and calculated that if I could get them quarrelling, I might be able to make my escape before they realized what I was about. Unfortunately, Father Berowne — or Henry Maynard as I must now think of him — was not so easily duped and, without waiting for me to finish speaking, moved suddenly and speedily to stand behind me, producing from the sleeve of his gown a long-bladed and very sharp knife. I could feel the point sticking into my back through the thickness of my shirt and tunic.
‘Just walk slowly into the house, Master Chapman,’ he said politely, but with such an undertone of menace that I shivered involuntarily. He chuckled softly. ‘Oh yes, you’re right to be afraid. I shan’t hesitate to use this. I’m inured to killing by now. One more death amongst the rest won’t worry me.’
I didn’t doubt it. Any hopes I might have entertained of making a sudden run for it, were frustrated by Arbella walking immediately ahead of me, so that anyone observing us from the roadway might have been puzzled at seeing the three of us in single file. Except, of course, there wasn’t anyone about. In my experience there never is when you want them.
We entered the cottage and the priest motioned me to sit down at the table on the side farthest from the door. He sat opposite, the knife laid ostentatiously between us and his right hand resting suggestively on the hilt. Arbella, having carefully shut the door behind her, sat where she could see us both.
‘Where’s Celia?’ I demanded abruptly. ‘What have you done with her?’
Henry smiled. ‘What do you suppose? You’ve just been looking at her grave.’
I stared at him. Even now I knew the truth, he didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. With his short, slight build, his innocent blue eyes, his curly hair and, above all, the youthful air that clung about him, belying the fact that he must be approaching forty, it was almost impossible to believe him guilty of the various crimes I knew must lie at his door.
As though he could read my thoughts, he suddenly leant towards me, his usually benevolent expression contorted into a vicious mask. ‘If you know as much as you seem to do,’ he said, ‘then you have to know what happened to my sister and myself as children. The Godsloves sold us into slavery in Ireland because we had become a burden to them. And also for money. Money!’ he repeated. ‘Money so that their precious brother could become a fine London lawyer. Do you wonder, when we finally discovered the truth, that we wanted our revenge?’
‘Why did you wait so long?’ I asked, intrigued in spite of myself and the disgust I felt for this murderous pair.
It was Arbella who answered. ‘Because we didn’t know for certain.’ Her lip curled disdainfully. ‘It might surprise you to hear that although, as we grew older, the suspicion of their complicity occasionally crossed our minds, we couldn’t bring ourselves to believe it. You see, our mother was a distant cousin of the Godsloves, so we were in some, admittedly remote, degree kin to them. Of course, Clemency and Charity and Sybilla didn’t deign to regard us as such. To those three, we were merely the housekeeper’s children.’
‘So how did you find out that your suspicions were correct?’ I queried. ‘Something must have brought you to England.’
‘What brought us to England,’ Henry said, ‘was the death of my brother-in-law, Seamus Rokeswood, and a natural curiosity to discover what had become of the Godsloves in the intervening years. Seamus, you see, was the master who had bought us from the slavers and brought us up. He was a widower, years older than Lucy, but he took a fancy to her and when she was old enough, he married her. He had always treated us with great consideration — most Irish are good to their servants — but for the latter part of his life he was an invalid and she wouldn’t leave him. But when he died, we were at last free to do as we pleased. Seamus had left Lucy a little money, enough for our immediate needs and we were able to take ship to Bristol, from where we made our way to London. Our enquiries around the Inns of Court soon located a Lawyer Godslove — Oswald Godslove — and after that, there was no difficulty in finding out where he lived.’
‘And it so happened,’ Arbella put in, ‘that fortune favoured us. The Arbour had just lost its housekeeper, and Clemency was looking for another. I offered my services and was immediately accepted.’ She gave a little crow of laughter. ‘And as if that weren’t sufficient good luck for two people, the parish priest of St Botolph’s had recently disappeared. My brother simply took his place.’
‘Are you really a priest?’ I asked, looking across the table at Henry.
He grinned. ‘Let’s say I’m a sort of hedge-priest. I was known around Waterford for my hell-fire sermons.’
‘But did no ecclesiastical authority ever question your right to be in charge at St Botolph’s?’
That made him laugh out loud. ‘“Ecclesiastical authorities”!’ he mocked. ‘Don’t you realize that parish priests are the scum of the earth, the poorest of the poor? No one cares if they live or die or just run away, as my predecessor did. The stipend — if it ever gets paid, that is — is often less than six pounds a year. Most of the poor devils can’t write their own names. As long as a parish has a priest, and the parishioners aren’t complaining of the lack of one, the authorities are more than happy to ask no questions. I doubt if anyone outside the parish boundaries was even aware that a change had taken place.’
There was silence for a moment or two while I digested this information. Then I shrugged.
‘Very well,’ I said at last. ‘So the wheel of fortune spun your way. What next? Did none of the Godsloves recognize you?’
Arbella sneered. ‘Why should they? Nearly twenty-five years had passed. We shouldn’t have recognized them if we hadn’t known who they were. For quarter of a century, they hadn’t given us a thought. And Celia and Martin would have been too young to remember us with any clarity.’
‘And Reynold and Julian Makepeace wouldn’t have known you at all,’ I said viciously. ‘They’d never set eyes on you or had anything to do with you.’
Both brother and sister looked genuinely bewildered.
‘No, of course they hadn’t,’ Henry agreed.
‘Then why did you have Reynold murdered?’ I demanded furiously.
Henry blinked, staring at me as though I had gone a little mad. Then, slowly, a look of comprehension dawned and he started to grin.
‘You think we had Reynold Makepeace killed! Do the Godsloves believe that, too? Dear oh dear! No, no!’ He shook his head. ‘Reynold’s death had nothing to do with us. It was just what it seemed — a fatal stabbing during an ale-room brawl.’