Now she smiled directly at me. ‘Yes, I do care. Don’t ask me why, for I don’t know myself But your good opinion matters to me.’
Again, I did not answer immediately. Instead, I stared thoughtfully at her, at the strong hands which continued their kneading, at the strong forearms, revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of her shabby blue gown, at the strong, dark features with the faint white scar running from eyebrow to cheek.
Strength, I realized now, was the one word which best summed up Grizelda Harbourne, strength of body and also strength of will. I recalled her self-proclaimed ability to haul heavy buckets of water up the steep banks of the river to her cottage. I remembered Jack Carter’s description of her as a woman who had shown fortitude in the face of an adversity which had dogged her all her life, a woman who did not waste time and energy bemoaning her fate, but who bided her time and who, I believed, had seized her opportunity when it was finally offered to her in the shape of Eudo Colet. A woman who allowed neither the natural ties of affection nor the milk of human kindness nor Christian teaching to stand in the way of what she wanted. An evil woman, Innes Woodsman had called her. And it was for that, and for what else he had known, that he had been burned alive…
‘I hear the outlaws have been taken,’ I said, breaking my silence, ‘but that they deny the murder of Andrew and Mary Skelton.’
Grizelda snorted. ‘So I, too, have been told. That and the death of the mummers. The two most heinous crimes they have been charged with and which have people baying for their blood.’
I said, giving careful weight to my words, ‘I have discovered that Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis were not mummers, but jongleurs. As well as playing instruments, they also sang. At least, one of their number, a former member of their troupe, who left them some years ago, did so. And very sweetly, if the porter of this town’s East Gate is to be believed.’
Grizelda paused in her kneading and glanced up in perplexity.
‘You twist and turn too much for me, Roger. I’ve lost the thread of your discourse. What has one of the Totnes gatekeepers to do with these mummers? And with one in particular, who, you say, left the company some time since.’
‘Jongleurs.‘ I insisted for a second time. ‘The porter knows this man, and has supped with him, on occasions, at Matt’s tavern, in the Foregate. A man who also has a very special talent’ – I recollected Ginèvre’s words and added – ‘either from God or from the Devil.’
There was a moment’s utter stillness. The evening shadows lengthened across the inner courtyard and crept in through the kitchen doorway. Grizelda seemed briefly turned to stone, like someone who had looked upon the head of Medusa.
Then, with a little laugh, she once more resumed her kneading.
‘You mean that this man – this mummer or jongleur, whatever you choose to call him – has settled here, in Totnes?’ She sounded incredulous.
I nodded. ‘I do. And I note that you do not ask the nature of his peculiar talent. But then perhaps you already know it.’ I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, but Grizelda did not answer. I went on, ‘This man has the strange gift of being able to speak without moving his lips. Not only that, but he can also make his voice sound as though it is coming from some way off, from the mouth of another person, from above, below, beside or behind him. I saw this art practised once, when I was a child, in the market place in Wells, and I have never forgotten it. It was like magic, although that man’s skill was not so great I fancy as that of Eudo Colet, who can also mimic other people’s voices.’
Once again, there was complete silence in the kitchen, except for the bubbling of the stew in the pot. Grizelda reached for the cloth and wiped her hands, carefully peeling the clinging dough from between her fingers. At last, she asked in an expressionless voice, ‘Are you saying that Eudo Colet is this man?’
‘Yes. And you see what this means.’ She did not answer, but looked at me with eyes as flat and opaque as pebbles. ‘It means that he could well have murdered both Andrew and Mary Skelton before he left the house to visit Master Thomas Cozin. The children’s voices which Bridget Praule and Agatha Tenter heard belonged to him. Even when, according to Bridget, Eudo Colet stood at the foot of the stairs and called up to them, and Mary answered, it was all illusion. Mary was dead by then, and so was her brother.’
Grizelda continued to stare at me as though she were in a trance, then, with a sudden movement which made me jump, hunched her shoulders.
‘You seem very well informed,’ she snapped. ‘Who told you all this?’
‘I’ve been to London and back during the past two weeks. I went to see Mistress Napier.’
‘Ah! Ginèvre!’ Grizelda’s eyes went blank again, making it impossible to tell what she was thinking. After a moment, however, she said, ‘But when Eudo Colet returned from Master Cozin’s, the children had vanished. How did he dispose of their bodies?’
I drew myself away from the wall and stood upright, easing my shoulders.
‘On the face of it,’ I acknowledged, ‘that appears to be a difficulty not easily resolved.’ I walked towards the table and, leaning across it, plucked at Grizelda’s sleeve. ‘This blue gown,’ I said ‘is very well-worn. I’ve never seen you wear another, not even for the hocking. Jack Carter, who let me ride in his wagon as far as Exeter, told me that you had never had many clothes, that you were treated scurvily by your cousin, who rarely gave you any of her cast-off gowns.’
‘So?’ The colour flared in Grizelda’s cheeks. I had touched her pride, the pride which had so often been ripped to tatters by her treatment in the Crouchback household. ‘Finery has never meant much to me. I was content with the little I had.’
‘Yet when you quit this house, you left two gowns behind, in that chest in the room that you shared with the children. Don’t deny it, because I saw them.’
‘Poking and prying, were you? That appears to be one of your less pleasant habits.’ The dark eyes had lost their blank look and burned with anger, but almost immediately their fire was dimmed, as Grizelda took herself once more in hand.
‘I was very upset that morning, after my quarrel with Master Colet. It was hardly surprising that I failed to take everything with me. By the time I discovered my omission, it was too late, and I was not going to go cap in hand to Eudo Colet and ask his permission to retrieve them. Well? Are you satisfied?’
Slowly, I shook my head. I leaned forward once more, the palms of my hands pressed against the top of the table.
‘Then why,’ I demanded, ‘if you had so few garments, and if two of those had been left behind, was your box so heavy? Why was Jack Carter, having dragged it downstairs, forced to call for the stableman to help him load it on to his wagon?’ She did not answer my question, but I saw her eyes suddenly dilate with fear. ‘I’ll tell you why, shall I?’ I persisted, leaning even closer, until my face was within an inch of hers. ‘Your box was so heavy because it contained the bodies of Andrew and Mary Skelton.’
The rabbit stew, so long untended, bubbled over and quenched the flames of the fire with a boiling hiss, but neither of us heeded the clouds of steam nor the stench of burning meat. I doubt if we even noticed them at the time. It was only afterwards that I was aware of having heard the one and smelled the other.
It seemed an eternity before Grizelda spoke, although I suppose it was no more than moments.
‘So!’ she said, and, quite unexpectedly, she smiled. ‘Now, how have you reached that conclusion, Roger?’ I straightened my back and folded my arms across my chest.
‘There is,’ I said, ‘no other explanation. You didn’t hate Eudo Colet, nor he you. From the first moment of seeing each other, you felt a mutual attraction, although I suspect his passion for you was not as great as that of yours for him. He was, after all, quite content with his position as Rosamund’s husband. Her determination to marry him must have seemed like the consummation of all his dreams, the very summit of good fortune. He was not anxious to endanger that position by responding too keenly to your advances. Indeed, for his sake, it was better that the two of you should not appear too friendly. More than likely, Rosamund was jealous of him. But he liked women, had a reputation for it, and in secret, your friendship blossomed. He confided to you the history of his life before he met your cousin, and no doubt, he also entertained you with examples of his strange, but fascinating talent.’