‘I have myself seen this sort of trick performed,’ I said, ‘but not, I fancy, with such skill as you describe.’
‘Wait!’ Ginèvre had raised one pale hand, its tracery of knotted veins showing up cruelly in the pallid sunlight. ‘There’s more. Eudo could also mimic other people’s voices. In fact, if you closed your eyes and listened, you could imagine him to be an old man or even an old woman, a crying baby or a young child. It was remarkable – and frightening.’
‘A child,’ I said, and the roof of my mouth felt dry with excitement. ‘You say he could mimic a young child?’
‘I tell you, he was able to copy anyone.’ Ginèvre brought her hand down hard on the table-top, her many rings making a dull thud as they struck the wood. ‘But neither was that the greatest of his talents.’ She had reached out and laid her hand on mine, although I do not think, on this occasion, she was altogether aware of what she was doing. ‘He could make his voice sound as though it were coming from a distance. Once, during the months he stayed here, while Rosamund did her best to turn him into a gentleman – an impossible task, as we have both agreed – I was in this room with him, when I heard my husband speak, behind me. I whirled about, expecting to see Gregory at my shoulder, but he wasn’t there. And when I turned back to Eudo Colet, he was laughing. I was so furious, he never practised the trick on me again, in spite of Rosamund encouraging him to do so. She thought it amusing and very clever, until I warned her that if Eudo fooled people in such a manner when she was home, in Devon, his fairground origins might soon be guessed at. I think the force of this argument must have struck her, for after that, Eudo ceased to exercise his peculiar talents. But take it from me, chapman! I have never met anyone, either before or since, who possessed one tithe of his ability. A gift from God – or from the Devil!’
Her words were still ringing in my ears as I sipped my ale.
The mutton broth smelled good, but for once in my life, I wasn’t hungry, in spite of not having eaten for many hours.
I was too excited, and needed to make sense of what I had learned. First and foremost, I now knew, beyond all doubt, that the childish voice which had lured me from my bed, belonged not to the earth-bound spirit of either Andrew or Mary Skelton, but to Eudo Colet. Secondly, that being the case, his knowledge of the damage to his property stemmed from that night, and not from anything he might have seen on a later occasion. And that, in its turn, led me to the conclusion that I was mistaken in believing he had paid Grizelda a visit the night of the second murder. Eudo could have spied Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis anywhere within the walls of Totnes, or indeed outside them, without our noticing him. I had imagined the shadowy figure in the passageway, behind Grizelda. It had been a trick of the darkness. She had not deceived me into thinking that she was there alone.
I heaved a great sight of relief, and found that my hand was trembling so much I was in danger of spilling my ale.
Carefully replacing the beaker on the table, I leaned back in my corner and closed my eyes for a moment, overcome by the realization that my feelings for her ran deeper than I had so far admitted to myself. She held a fascination, an attraction for me which, if it was not yet strong enough to be called love, was nevertheless something closely akin. It was difficult to say exactly where the enchantment lay, for I had met many younger and more beautiful women without succumbing to their charms, although, if I were honest with myself, I knew that I was susceptible to sudden infatuations, quite often for women who felt nothing in return for me.
I opened my eyes again, drank some more ale and considered how Ginèvre Napier’s disclosures weighted the evidence in favour of Eudo Colet’s guilt concerning the killing of his stepchildren. But as the afternoon waxed and waned, as my table companions paid their shot and left, to be replaced by yet a second gathering of carters, this time from around Norwich, I was still left with the same dilemma which had dogged me from the outset of this case.
My newfound knowledge concerning Eudo made it possible to believe that he himself had killed the children sometime between Grizelda’s departure and his visit to Thomas Cozin. Casting my mind back as well as I could, I felt sure that neither Bridget Praule nor Agatha Tenter actually claimed to have seen Mary or Andrew Skelton during that time, but had only heard their voices from the upper floor. Eudo playing his tricks! Even when he had stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted up to them, ‘God be with you,’ and Mary had been heard to answer, ‘And with you, too!’ it could have been nothing but an illusion that the child was still alive. A clever man. A very clever man, who had used his talents for his own evil ends. And yet… When he returned to the house, it was Bridget who had been sent to look for the children and summon them to his presence, but, according to her, they could not be found. Alive or dead, they had vanished.
It was a warm night, the April air untouched by chill, the sky soft, deep, and luminous, lit by a thousand twinkling stars, and I slept snugly enough in the hayloft of a barn on the outskirts of Paddington village. My appetite had sufficiently recovered, before I left Blossom’s Inn, for me to consume two steaming platefuls of their mutton broth, together with the heel of a loaf and another generous stoup of ale. By the time I awoke the following morning, I was thoroughly refreshed and determined to return to Totnes as soon as possible. I washed and shaved in the stream which watered the surrounding meadows, begged some bread and cheese from the farmer’s wife, in exchange for a pack of needles and set off along the dusty highway which led westwards, trusting that, before long, I should fall in with a carter travelling in the same direction.
Once again, my luck held, and in spite of two days when I had only my legs to carry me, less than a week later I found myself approaching Exeter. The carter who had let me ride in the back of his wagon for the past two days, was anxious to be home and had therefore kept up a good pace, with small regard for the bumps and other obstacles of the road, not caring to talk or to stop more than was necessary, with the result that on Friday afternoon, he drew up close to St Catherine’s Chapel and the adjacent almshouses, with an hour or so to spare before Compline. As I slid from the back of the cart, from between the bales of linen destined for a local mercer, I thanked him and asked if he knew where the lawyer, Oliver Cozin, dwelt. The man nodded dourly.
‘Oh, aye,’ he said, ‘there’s few that don’t know Master Cozin in this city.’ He eyed me sharply. ‘Why would the likes of you wish to speak to a lawyer? Not in trouble with the law, are you?’
I hastened to reassure him that his wagon had not been harbouring a wanted criminal, and was directed to a handsome, half-timbered house near to the West Gate, in Stepcote Hill. My knock was answered by a thin, hawk-like woman, who was plainly the housekeeper, and who would have sent me about my business had I not had the foresight to put my foot between the door and its jamb as soon as it was opened.
‘If you will but mention to your master that Roger the chapman desires a word with him, I feel certain that he will see me,’ I wheedled. I smiled at her, hopefully.
‘Lawyer Cozin’s at supper,’ she retorted, but I could tell that she was beginning to waver. I smiled again. ‘Oh, very well!’ she snapped. ‘Wait there. But you’re not to cross the threshold until I return.’
I gave my word, and she disappeared through a door to her left. I heard the low murmur of voices, followed by an exclamation of annoyance, then a testy, ‘What brings him here?’ But a moment later, the woman reappeared and gave a jerk of her head.