I could tell from her tone of voice that she was worried, foreseeing, as I had done, a future when these problems might be ours, and frightened for the outcome. I tightened my hold on her.
‘We’re not the Linkinhornes,’ I reassured her. ‘We shan’t expect to command our children’s love, or feel slighted if they withhold it. Or at least not so that it shows. And we’d never let our resentment of their behaviour get in the way of doing what was right. If Elizabeth or Nicholas or Adam vanished without a word, we’d move heaven and earth to find out what had happened to him or her.’
‘Is that what you think it was, resentment?’
‘Oh, yes. I feel certain of it. Isabella had shut them out of her life, even flagrantly lying to them. And they must have known in their hearts that she was lying, even while pretending to themselves that they believed her. They’d given her everything, including more love and attention than one person could cope with. So when, as they thought, she left them without a word for the love of someone else, they only made a pretence of trying to find her. But I think the lack of effort must have preyed on Mistress Linkinhorne’s mind. A year after Isabella’s disappearance, she was dead. Drowned in the Avon.’
‘Suicide?’ Adela whispered.
‘Not officially. An accident; and maybe it was. But I can’t help wondering if remorse played any part in her death.’
‘Poor woman.’
Adela spoke so softly that I barely heard her, as a sudden squall of rain rattled the bedchamber shutters and wind moaned down Small Street between the overhanging eaves of the houses. I kissed her gently on the forehead.
‘Go to sleep,’ I murmured, ‘and stop worrying over matters you’ve no hope of mending. Our lives can never be that bad, not while we have each other.’
She settled her head contentedly once more against my shoulder, and I thought I caught a half-laughing, disjointed mutter about men and roving eyes and their general untrustworthiness, which I considered it best to ignore. I gave her another kiss, which was received with sufficient, if somewhat sleepy, passion to make me think of assaulting the citadel again, but tiredness won. Before the thought was even half-formed, I was (so Adela informed me the following day) snoring.
Sunday passed, as Sundays generally do, in a haze of churchgoing, reading of the Scriptures and boredom. There was no sign of John Foster at Saint Giles. It being the Sunday before his swearing-in as the city’s new Mayor, he would have gone in procession with his fellow aldermen and the out-going Mayor to Saint Mark’s chapel at the Gaunts’ Hospital, and I was relieved to be spared his anxious queries as to how my investigation was proceeding. (People always thought that facts just fell into my lap without any work on my part.) It continued raining all day, which meant that the children were housebound and forbidden to play games for fear of disturbing the Sabbath calm and the religious scruples of the neighbours. So I gathered the family around the kitchen table and told them the story of Noah and the flood; although I wondered afterwards, noting the look of rapt attention on Adam’s face, if it had been a wise choice. There was never any knowing what was going on in that devious little head of his.
But no Sunday, however dismal, can last for ever, and by Monday morning the weather had improved. Daybreak brought sun and gently steaming cobbles, and even the men who rattled into the city on their carts to clear the drains sounded cheerful as they called to one another or returned greetings with people already abroad in the streets. The night-soil man actually made an early appearance, apologizing for his absence on Saturday, which, he said, had been caused by a bad back. I grunted to Adela that I wished I had a groat for every time I’d listened to that excuse, but she hushed me quickly. As a woman, she knew that there were certain people who should never be antagonized.
I ate my breakfast of dried herring and oatmeal biscuit, then grabbed my cudgel and whistled up Hercules ready for the long uphill trudge to Clifton. The strangeness of leaving my pack behind still irked me and made me feel guilty, but as Adela sensibly remarked, the sooner I found the answer to this particular problem, the sooner I would be free to pursue my rightful calling. I kissed her soundly and told her she had more faith in my abilities than I had, at least in this particular case, but she only laughed and retorted that modesty didn’t become me.
‘On your way!’ she ordered, before sitting down at the table and beginning the arduous task of binding new broom twigs on to the ash sapling handle that had served her as the mainstay of her besom for so long.
I had recently found in a pile of street rubbish an old, very long leather belt that must once have belonged to an extremely fat man. It proved ideal as a new lead for Hercules, with the buckle end lightly fastened around his neck and the other coiled around my wrist. He was at first inclined to resent this tougher and wider restriction against his throat and strained angrily at the leash all the way across the Frome Bridge and along the Backs; but by the time we reached the open ground above the straggling streets and houses that had proliferated beyond the city walls, he was trotting along quietly and proudly and looking disdainfully at other dogs confined simply by a piece of rope.
We climbed past the summit of Saint Brendan’s hill and then further up until finally, hot and breathless — well I know I was — we achieved the plateau of land to the east of the great gorge. After yesterday’s rain, it bid fair to be a fine day with a promise of that warmth so characteristic of an English spring, when the weather has not quite made up its mind that winter is past, but can’t help hinting at summer joys to come. Still slumbering trees brooded over sun-dappled grass, distances shifted in the soft morning haze and a ragged string of geese rose, gobbling, into a pale green sky. There were plenty of fellow travellers already on the road; pedlars like myself, a party of mummers probably moving on from the house which had given them shelter throughout the winter months, people with baskets and carts of vegetables or driving animals, all of them heading downhill to Bristol in its marshy bed, hoping to sell them at market. Two stalwart churchmen sailed like a couple of black swans through the early mist.
The manor of Clifton lives up to its name; the cliff town perched on the edge of Ghyston Cliff, the great rock face on the Bristol side of the gorge that rises sheer from the bed of the River Avon. It still being very early, and not wishing to disturb Emilia Virgoe’s slumbers, should the old lady not feel the urge to rise at the crack of dawn, Hercules (long since let off his leash) and I made our way to the great tump, about a quarter of a mile from the edge of the cliff. Here we sat down and from my satchel I produced the hunk of rye bread and scraps of meat that Adela had given me. There was also a piece of cheese wrapped in dock leaves, but Hercules turned his nose up at that, so I had it all to myself. Then we both stretched out on one of the grassy mounds of the tump and let our tired limbs slowly recover from the rigours of the climb.
The tump is a strange place, full of ghostly echoes. Some say that our Celtic ancestors used it as a fort until the Romans drove them out and turned it into a look-out post from which they could survey the river and its approaches, so that raiding parties of Welshmen shouldn’t take them by surprise. Then there are other wilder stories that the mound was built by either the Saracens or the Jews. Ridiculous, of course, but these odd notions take a hold in the minds of country people, often gaining ascendancy over the far more likely, rational explanations. And then there’s the legend of how the gorge itself was hewn out of living rock by the two giants, Goram and Vincent, using one pick which they threw back and forth to one another until the latter accidentally killed the former, and spent the rest of his life in prayer and good works in order to atone.