It was at this point that Hercules finally managed to squirm free of my arms and perform the trick he always tried whenever he was annoyed at being kept waiting: he cocked his leg against mine and peed all down my boot. The hermit suddenly proved that he had a sense of humour — of a sort — and burst out laughing. In fact he was doubled up with mirth and appeared in imminent danger of having a seizure.
I grabbed the miscreant and left.
Six
It was not until I reached the top of the path that I realized my original question had remained unanswered. The hermit had failed to tell me where I might find Emilia Virgoe. This, however, proved to be no problem as the first person I encountered, a smiling countrywoman in a brown homespun gown and a snowy-white hood and apron, immediately directed me to the nurse’s cottage.
This stood a little apart from the village, set back from the track known generally as Stonelea; a track that led eastwards and downwards to Bristol in the vicinity of Steep Street. Somewhere near the beginning of the descent the road divided, the left-hand fork being the approach to the village of Westbury which, in all probability, I would be taking later. But not before I had had a word with Mistress Virgoe.
Judging by the height of the sun, the morning was by now well advanced, and I was afraid she might be out and about, gathering wood for her fire or looking for mushrooms that had sprung up in the fields overnight after the previous day’s wet weather. But I need not have worried: Emilia Virgoe was at home, clearing away the remnants of her seemingly frugal dinner. There was no smell of cooking, no pot over the fire and only a crust of bread and a rind of cheese on the plate remaining on the table.
She was a small woman, neat, compact, with a pair of intelligent brown eyes in a wrinkled, weathered face, a short, straight nose and thin lips that curled upwards at the corners as though their owner was ready at any moment to break into a smile. Jonathan Linkinhorne had told me that she was well over sixty, and there was nothing to contradict this statement in the badly gnarled hands that were clasped composedly in front of her once she had opened the cottage door to my knock. But in spite of the wrinkles and knotted joints there was an indefinable air of youthfulness about her that I have noticed in some old people. Spry is the word that I think best described her.
‘Yes?’ she queried. ‘And what do you want, young man?’
I explained as clearly and succinctly as I could, but I need not have feared for her powers of understanding. She listened quietly, her head cocked slightly to one side, and at no time did she ask me to repeat myself. When I had finished, she invited me to enter, holding the door wide and stooping to pat Hercules’s head. He licked her hand and at once made himself at home, stretching out in front of the fire on its central hearth and promptly settling down to sleep.
‘He likes you,’ I grinned. ‘He doesn’t take to everybody.’
Her lips twitched. ‘And I don’t take to every dog I meet. But he’s a nice little fellow. I knew it the second I set eyes on him.’ She saw me looking at the bread and cheese and quietly removed the plate to a broad shelf near the water barrel, then told me to sit down on one of the two stools drawn up to the table. She took the other, facing me, and asked with the same composure she had shown throughout, ‘Now, what is it you want from me? You say you’ve spoken to Master Linkinhorne, so what more can I tell you?’
I countered with a question of my own.
‘Were you shocked to hear the recent news of the discovery of Isabella’s body?’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘You have heard, I assume?’ I did a quick calculation in my head. ‘Now I come to think of it, it’s only four days since she was found.’
The brown eyes lit with amusement.
‘My dear — Roger, did you say your name is?’ I nodded. ‘My dear Roger,’ she went on, ‘how long do you think it needs for such tidings to reach as far as Clifton? We are not living on the moon. The news was all over the manor by Friday morning, and as Sister Walburga had by then identified the remains as those of Isabella, I was naturally one of the very first to be informed.’
‘So … were you shocked?’
Emilia Virgoe hesitated before saying primly, ‘Of course.’
I regarded her severely. ‘Shocked, yes. Naturally. But surprised?’
There was a longer pause, and I sensed my hostess’s sudden discomfort.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked at last.
‘The truth would be helpful.’ Then, feeling that this was a little blunt, if not downright rude, I added meekly, ‘Please.’
She gave me a swift smile that puckered the corners of her eyes, but faded to leave her looking sad and somewhat apprehensive.
‘No,’ she admitted at last. ‘Not surprised.’
I leaned my elbows on the table. ‘Mistress Virgoe, did you suspect that Isabella could have been the victim of foul play at the time of her disappearance?’
She delayed her answer by getting up and taking two beakers and an earthenware jar from a wall cupboard and bringing them back to the table. When she unstoppered the jar, the pungent scent of elderflower wine teased my nostrils and I knew that unless I managed to restrain my natural appetite, I should be in trouble. There are fewer drinks more potent, at least in my experience, than elderflower wine brewed by enthusiastic old ladies. The dames themselves usually regard it as harmless, even after it has been stored and allowed to ferment throughout the winter; just a refreshing draft to revive you, they say. Never believe them! It can lay you out flat, to be followed by a splitting headache.
I accepted my beaker but, after a sip or two to show willing, pushed it to one side.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I reminded Emilia gently.
‘Which was?’
‘Did you suspect that anything sinister had happened to Isabella when she vanished?’
The nurse took a deep breath. ‘No, not really.’ When I would have spoken again, she held up her hand to stop me. ‘I know! What do I mean by “not really”?’ She drank some wine before continuing. ‘It was nothing but a fleeting suspicion. A faint feeling of unease, if you like, but no more than that.’
‘Did you voice your unease to Master and Mistress Linkinhorne?’
‘Once. But not with any conviction.’
‘They thought it unlikely?’
‘They both dismissed the notion out of hand. Although …’
‘Yes? Although?’
Emilia Virgoe shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I remember thinking that Mistress Linkinhorne was less sceptical than her husband. But Amorette was always greatly influenced by him, and Jonathan soon persuaded her that the idea was nonsense. She agreed at once. And I didn’t press it. I didn’t truly consider it likely, myself.’
‘Why not?’
Suddenly she was angry.
‘What is this? An inquisition?’
I had the grace to blush. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that for Mayor Foster’s sake, I’d like to get at the truth. As I explained, he wants to build his chapel, dedicated to the Three Kings of Cologne, alongside his almshouses. But he feels that unless Isabella’s killer can be brought to justice, he can’t ask for the ground to be re-hallowed.’
My companion nodded. ‘I can understand that. I know of Master Foster by reputation. A good man and a devout Christian. Very well! I’ll answer your questions, although if you’ve spoken to Jonathan Linkinhorne, I doubt if there’s much else I can tell you.’