From the middle of the ceiling was suspended a candelabra of latten tin, its many filigree pendants tinkling in the slightest breeze. It was the room of a man of wealth, of a man who knew what was due to himself and to his standing within the community he served.
‘Ah, chapman, empty the contents of your pack on the table there, so that I can examine them at my leisure. I’m looking for some silk ribbons to adorn the sleeves of a new velvet gown.’
The woman who thus addressed me, was seated in one of the armchairs, her feet, elegantly shod in pale blue leather, resting on a low stool of carved elm. At first glance, it was difficult to guess her age, but I suspected her to be older than she would have had people think. There were lines around the grey-green eyes which seemed to grow more numerous the longer I observed them, and the slender, beringed hands already showed one or two brownish spots. Her eyebrows had been plucked and her forehead shaved to create the smooth, domed, mask-like appearance so prevalent in those days amongst women of fashion. A few stray hairs, which had escaped the razor, were auburn in colour, but the rest of the mane was tucked out of sight beneath a brocade cap and wired, gauze veil. Her full-sleeved gown was made of pale green sarcinet, embroidered with tiny blue flowers on thin, gold stems, and her girdle, studded with semi-precious stones, was of the same blue leather as her shoes. A gold and coral rosary was wrapped about one slender wrist, and a beautifully wrought gold pendant, on a thick gold chain, dangled from her neck. Her many rings were also of gold, as was the brooch, in the shape of a peacock, pinned to one shoulder of her gown. Master Gregory Napier made certain that his wife was a walking showpiece for his wares.
I emptied my pack as I was bid, spreading out its contents across the table, thankful that I had restocked in Exeter last Friday morning. I had managed to obtain several lengths of very fine silk ribbon from a Portuguese ship which had only just then tied up at the city quay. But even as I displayed them for her approval, I was conscious that Ginèvre Napier was far more interested in me. Her eyes kept straying from the ribbon to my face, and at every opportunity, her hand brushed one of mine. At length, she bade me draw up a stool.
‘For I can’t make up my mind which ribbon to choose,’ she said. ‘They are all so beautiful.’ After a few more minutes, however, she abandoned all pretence of interest, leaned back in her chair and asked, ‘Why were you watching this house? No, don’t deny it. I saw you.’
I recollected the shadowy figure at the open casement, and decided that I must be honest with her.
‘I’ve come to London from Devon,’ I said, ‘from the township of Totnes, on purpose to seek you out.’ She raised the faint, plucked line of her eyebrows in puzzlement, and I continued, ‘It concerns Lady Skelton and her second husband, the man she married here in London, Eudo Colet.’ A momentary wariness flickered into the grey-green eyes, and the heavy, almond-shaped lids closed over them, briefly.
Then the narrow shoulders were hunched with a ripple of pale green silk.
‘Now, why does a pedlar want to know about Master Eudo Colet?’ she demanded.
‘If you’ve the patience to listen,’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you. If not, you have only to say the word and I’ll take my leave at once.’ But I sent up an urgent prayer to heaven that she would hear me out.
Ginèvre clasped her hands together and regarded me thoughtfully across the bony knuckles.
‘Oh, I’ve the patience to listen.’ She added candidly, ‘I can always find time for a lad as good-looking as you.’
I ignored this last remark as best I could and plunged without further ado into the events which had occupied my mind, waking and sometimes sleeping, for the past twelve days: those surrounding the disappearance and subsequent murder of the two Skelton children, as yet, I mentioned nothing about the burning of Grizelda’s cottage and the death of Innes Woodsman, nor of the killing of Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis. When, at last, I had finished, my companion pursed her lips.
‘I pleaded with her not to marry that man,’ she said after a pause, ‘but Rosamund was always headstrong. Headstrong and wilful. That father of hers could never curb her fits and starts. Not that he ever tried to, as far as I could tell. A foolish, over-indulgent man, who thought his precious only child could do no wrong. As for her husband, Sir Henry Skelton… well! A man concerned more with his own advancement than trying to please his wife. A cold man, uninterested in the pleasures of the flesh.’ She stole a sidelong glance at me to see if she had caused embarrassment with such plain speaking, but I gave her no satisfaction, keeping my features under control. Ginèvre continued, ‘But then, as you may know, he was killed after on!y two years of marriage, and Rosamund went home to Sir Jasper, in Devon.’
I nodded. ‘And her cousin with her.’
‘Her cousin?’ Once again, Ginèvre was puzzled. Then comprehension dawned. ‘Oh, you mean Grizelda Harbourne. That poor creature!’ She was dismissive. ‘I’d forgotten she was kin to Rosamund, as anyone might, considering the way she was treated.’
‘And how was that?’ I ventured.
‘She was nurse to young Andrew after he was born, but before that – no better than a servant. If she led you to believe otherwise, she’s lying.’
‘I begin to think so,’ I agreed, and my heart went out to Grizelda for her proud and painful deception. ‘She wasn’t asked to accompany her kinswoman, when Lady Skelton came to stay here, with you, three years ago?’
Ginèvre Napier laughed. ‘No, indeed! For the first time in her life, Rosamund was her own mistress. No husband, no father. She was free to do as she pleased. She brought only her maid, a young, biddable girl who would protest at nothing, and do exactly as she was told.’
‘And it was during that visit,’ I said, ‘that Lady Skelton met Eudo Colet when you both visited St Bartholomew’s fair.’
Mistress Napier’s eyes opened very wide and fixed themselves on my face. ‘Now, how do you know that?’ she asked softly.
I made no attempt to answer the question. ‘He was a mummer,’ I hazarded. ‘A singer who could also play the flute a little. And he travelled the roads in summer, going from fair to fair.’
My companion nodded slowly, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘He was with a troupe of mummers and jongleurs who had a sideshow at the fair. But I ask again, how do you know? For I’d stake my life that Rosamund would have told no one, and nor would he. I’d have been willing to swear that Gregory and I were the only two people who were party to the truth.’
Once more, I did not answer, posing instead a question of my own.
‘Would you be willing to tell me how it all came about? Now that you find I know as much as I do.’
Her flown deepened. ‘You’re the strangest chapman I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘Who are you? And what can possibly be your interest in Rosamund’s affairs?’
‘My interest is in Eudo Colet. I believe him to be an evil man who may have done murder. As for who I am, I’m what I appear to be, a pedlar by trade, a man who was once a novice of the Benedictine Order, but who abandoned the religious life for the freedom of the open road.’
‘Ah!’ Ginèvre Napier continued to regard me, absentmindedly biting the nail of one finger while she considered my words. ‘That explains much,’ she went on at last. ‘A pedlar with book learning, and handsome, too! You could do as well for yourself, chapman, as Eudo Colet, for his looks, though pleasing to the female eye, are as nothing compared with yours.’ She sighed. ‘If only I weren’t so happily married …’