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As he rode, Bascot pondered what he had been told by the wine merchant about the neighbour who had travelled to Winchester over twenty years before. “The draper’s name was Thomas Adgate and, although I am not absolutely sure, I believe the two young girls were kinfolk of his.”

“Do you know if the draper was any relation to Simon Adgate, the furrier?” Bascot had asked.

“I believe so. Thomas was Simon’s uncle, I think, or a cousin of some sort.” The wine merchant had shaken his head sadly. “Many years ago, the Adgates were a prolific family, all related to an ancestor named Ad who, at one time, owned premises near Stonebow gate, but in my own generation, not many male children were born to the family. All of them were engaged in the cloth trade, fullers, dyers, drapers and a couple of furriers. Now only Simon, to my uncertain knowledge, is left.”

“And the girls-are they still here in Lincoln?”

Reinbald had pondered for a moment and then said, “Do you know, I don’t believe I ever saw either of them again after the draper returned from his trip. Not that I recall, anyway.”

As Bascot reined his horse in at the door to the furrier’s premises, he wondered if he had stumbled across yet another connection between Adgate and the murdered Tercel. First it had been discovered his wife was involved in an adulterous affair with the dead man and now it appeared that a relative of Adgate’s could be Tercel’s mother. Alinor’s intuition had been correct when she had insisted that Adgate was hiding something apart from his wife’s affair. Was it possible, despite strong evidence to the contrary, that it was the furrier who was responsible for the cofferer’s death?

When Bascot entered the shop, Adgate was serving a customer, a man who had brought his wife to select a fur-lined tippet. Clarice was with the furrier, placing various lengths of fur about her shoulders so that the woman could consider which of the scarflike garments she favoured. Adgate’s assistant hovered nearby.

When Bascot was shown in by the guard at the door, the furrier immediately came forward, his expression one of watchfulness. The customers looked speculatively towards Bascot as they noticed the Templar badge on the front of his cloak. Clarice looked frightened.

“I would have a few moments of private speech with you, Adgate,” Bascot said brusquely.

Signalling to his assistant to take his place, the furrier led Bascot to the hall where they had spoken together before. He offered the Templar a cup of wine which Bascot declined.

“I have come to ask about two relatives of yours, women who were related to a draper named Thomas Adgate. They were, I believe, your cousins.”

The furrier said nothing in response, just nodded.

“What were their names?” Bascot asked.

Adgate looked to the side, away from the Templar’s gaze. “May I ask why you want to know, Sir Bascot?”

“The information may be pertinent to the investigation into the murder of Lady Petronille’s retainer,” Bascot replied.

“I do not see how it can be,” the furrier replied. “What can either of my cousins have to do with it?”

Irritated by the furrier’s avoidance of a direct answer, Bascot decided to be more forceful with his questions and took a bold leap, as though his knowledge was certain rather than nebulous. “I am told that one of your cousins went to Winchester with Thomas Adgate some twenty-five years ago. That is the time, and the place, where Aubrey Tercel-the man your wife was having an affair with-was conceived. Later, the child was given into the care of another and the mother returned to her home in Lincoln. I have reason to believe that Tercel’s mother and one of your cousins are the same person.”

The vitality seemed to drain out of Adgate. He sank onto the seat of a chair at the table and, with shaking hands, poured himself a cup of wine before he answered. When his response came, it was murmured in a voice that was barely audible.

“Yes, she is,” he said quietly.

The Templar experienced a thrill of satisfaction. Although he was still far from obtaining proof of the woman’s, or Adgate’s, culpability, he was making progress towards that end. It was evident in the furrier’s submissive attitude that he was on the verge of revealing that which he had so far kept concealed. Bascot’s voice took on a hard edge as he pressed his advantage. “Had Tercel discovered that fact? Was that the matter you discussed with him here, in this very room, on the day that your wife said you were closeted with him for a long time? And the reason you were arguing with him in the street in front of your premises?”

Adgate looked up in startlement at the last statement.

“You were seen, furrier, by a neighbour,” the Templar informed him.

The flesh on Adgate’s face sagged, and he nodded miserably.

“Then you must tell me your cousin’s name.”

But instead of responding as Bascot had expected him to do, and reveal his cousin’s identity, the furrier pulled himself up and squared his shoulders. “I will not do so. She has suffered enough. And I am certain she did not commit the murder. To know her name will profit you nothing, and will cause her great distress if it is revealed. I have kept her secret all of these years and I will not betray her now.”

Bascot struggled to keep his temper at the furrier’s refusal and consoled himself with the thought that now that they knew the woman was related to Adgate, it would take only a little effort to unearth the name of both his cousins. Gildas, the barber, as a good friend of Adgate, would know the identities of the other members of the furrier’s family, and so, most probably, would other merchants in the town. It was simply a matter of asking, finding out their names and then questioning both of them to determine which of them had gone to Winchester in the year of Tercel’s conception. But even if they found the woman, it did not prove she was linked to the death of her illegitimate son, or that Adgate had been involved in the killing.

The Templar regarded the furrier. Was he a man who would commit murder to protect his cousin’s dark secret, or pay another to do so? Adgate had, so far, evidenced a merchant’s glib evasiveness, side-stepping all of the questions put to him, never telling an outright lie but confining himself to a partial truth when nothing else would suffice. Despite his irritation at Adgate’s continuing subterfuge, Bascot felt that the furrier was an honest man at heart and that if he was involved in the machinations of the murder, would have found it impossible to successfully conceal his guilt. The Templar looked carefully at the man seated before him. For the first time since Bascot had made his acquaintance, Adgate looked his age. The pouches beneath his eyes looked bruised and his skin was sallow. The Templar could not detect any trace of culpability in the furrier’s demeanour, instead Adgate exuded an ineffable lassitude, as though the events which had overtaken him-Tercel’s haranguing, his wife’s betrayal and, last but not least, the admission of his cousin’s secret-had wearied him beyond his strength. Although he felt some sympathy for the man who fate had, it appeared, chosen to buffet through the actions of others rather than his own, it remained imperative to discover if the murdered man’s mother had a connection with her son’s death and, to that end, he must pursue the matter.

“How did Tercel learn that his mother was related to you?” he asked.

Adgate raised haggard eyes to Bascot. “I do not know. Truly I do not. He merely said he had proof of his mother’s identity and that she was my cousin. Then he pressed me to tell him who his father was.”

“And who was it?”

“I could not tell Tercel and nor can I tell you, Sir Bascot, for I do not know,” Adgate replied.

The Templar felt his temper rise. “Come, furrier, surely your cousin’s parents, at least, would have known the man’s name. Or are you saying they refused to tell you?”