I frowned. ‘We mustn’t get used to good living, sweetheart. What we don’t use, I must give back to him.’
She grimaced. ‘I know. You like your independence. You don’t want to work for other people. But just now and then,’ she went on wistfully, ‘it’s nice not to have to worry about the price of things.’ She changed the subject quickly. ‘Have you found out anything of importance today?’
‘A little. I must go and see Margaret again. Her and the other two wise women of Redcliffe.’ Adela giggled. ‘I need to find out if they know, or knew, of anyone living in the city called Jane Honeychurch. She was Isabella’s maid,’ I explained, answering my wife’s look of enquiry.
I gave her a brief history of my day’s doings, and of the various scraps of knowledge I had garnered from the hermit, from Emilia Virgoe and from Judith and Alfred Humble, by which time the children had made their appearance, all clamouring to know if I had brought them anything. Fortunately for household peace, I had remembered my obligations before making my way to Small Street, and purchased some sugared violets from an itinerant sweetmeat seller. These I now proceeded to distribute equally between the three of them (with dire warnings not to eat them until after supper), which reminded Adela that it was the season for candying both flower heads and some of the early fruits.
‘I must ask Margaret if she can spare me a few scrapings of her sugar loaf,’ she remarked, starting to ladle the mutton broth on to our plates. ‘I know some of the Redcliffe dames share half a one amongst themselves.’
‘I’ll ask her tomorrow,’ I volunteered. ‘It will give me an excuse for calling on her again so soon. She might otherwise get the impression that I’m hankering after her company.’
My wife smiled, but shook her head reprovingly.
‘Margaret’s a good woman, Roger, and she’s been an excellent friend to us. To me, especially, when you’re away from home.’
‘Away!’ shouted Adam, exploring one nostril with a grubby forefinger whilst spooning broth into his mouth with his other hand. The combination of all three activities resulted in the gravy running down over his chin and staining his little smock. Adela gave an exasperated groan, while the two older children tried to suppress their sniggers. It was, I reflected, a fairly normal mealtime and I attempted to maintain my good humour.
I was in Redcliffe bright and early the following morning, only to find my former mother-in-law already spinning busily, the basket of unbleached wool having been delivered to her from the weaving sheds probably just after dawn.
‘You’ve started betimes. I thought the guild regulated spinners’ hours,’ I said, frowning.
Margaret snorted in derision. ‘So they might have, my lad! But I’m a poor woman and I can earn a deal more money by adhering to Master Adelard’s hours than going along with all this new-fangled nonsense.’
‘The guild’s rules are made for your own good,’ I protested.
‘You mind your own business,’ she answered tartly, ‘and I’ll mind mine. What can I do for you? Two visits in four days! I am honoured.’
I asked first about the sugar loaf, and she nodded. ‘I’ll divide my share with Adela most willingly.’ Then when I showed no sign of immediately taking my leave, she stopped the loom and regarded me shrewdly. ‘Well? What else?’ she demanded. ‘Out with it! I’m very busy today, as you can see.’
I pulled up a stool and sat down beside her. ‘It’s to do with this present enquiry of mine for Mayor Foster.’ And I launched into as brief an explanation as I could of what I had so far discovered. ‘So,’ I asked, when I had finished, ‘does the name of this Jane Honeychurch mean anything at all to you? Married or not, the woman would be forty or so years of age by now.’
Margaret sat, chewing her bottom lip for a moment or two before giving a decisive shake of her head.
‘I’ll have to go and consult with Maria and Bess,’ she announced, getting up from her loom and putting on her cloak. Obviously, helping me took precedence over her own work, however urgent that might be. ‘Stay here,’ she added. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
She was optimistic. I reckoned that a good hour had passed before I saw her again, looking refreshed after a long gossip and exchange of information with her two bosom friends. During her absence I took in another basket of wool from the weaving sheds, a loaf of oaten bread which she had sent to be baked in the ovens in Water Lane and lied about her whereabouts to another caller, who urgently needed her advice on how to use alkanet as a colouring for cheese.
‘You’ve been in demand,’ I said as she closed the cottage door and divested herself of her cloak.
‘Never mind that,’ she retorted. ‘That nurse — Mistress Virgoe, or whatever she’s called — was in the right of it. Jane Honeychurch was a Bristol maid. Furthermore, you’re in luck. She still lives here. She’s married to one of the scullions who works in the castle kitchens. Jane Purefoy, her name is now. Her husband’s known to Maria’s nephew, although, apparently, Nick doesn’t care much for the man. Still, your business won’t be with him.’
‘True,’ I agreed. ‘Where does Goody Purefoy live?’
But here Margaret’s information was deficient. ‘Maria didn’t know for certain, but it’ll either be in one of those hovels just outside the castle walls or in the domestic quarters of the castle itself. Knock on a few doors. Someone will know where to find her. But watch your purse, if you’ve one on you. There are some rogues and villains living in that part of the town.’
‘There are rogues and villains everywhere,’ I said, bringing a hot defence of Redcliffe springing to her lips. I forestalled this diatribe by pointing out the new basket of wool, the loaves of baked bread and telling her about her neighbour’s enquiry concerning alkanet for colouring cheese. Then I took a hurried leave of her, before being forced to admit that I had failed to ask the neighbour’s name, and made my way back across Bristol Bridge, through a network of narrow side streets and alleys that eventually brought me to the towering bulk of the castle walls and the huddle of little cottages which surrounded them.
It needed no more than a couple of enquiries to elicit the information that Goody Purefoy lived in a cottage close to the great barbican gate, and a toothless crone with only one eye (a gaping, raw socket suggested that the accident had been of recent date) led me to a mean little hovel so closely crammed against the wall that it seemed part of the very stones themselves.
The woman who answered my knock looked far older than I had expected — more like someone of sixty than forty — but otherwise corresponding to Emilia Virgoe’s description of an ‘ugly, mousy little thing’. I imagined that the intervening years had not dealt kindly with her. Her hair, straggling from beneath a dirty linen coif, was now grey and very thin, her pale eyes almost colourless beneath non-existent brows, her complexion muddy and her skin wrinkled. She reminded me of a plant that had withered through want of light and air.
‘Goody Purefoy?’ I asked. ‘Jane Honeychurch that used to be?’
Reluctantly, she edged the door a little wider.
‘You’re the law,’ she said resignedly. ‘Ranald warned me to expect ’ee soon as we heard that that there body they’ve found is the mistress’s. Mistress Isabella’s. My man said you’d be round sometime or other, asking questions.’
‘I am enquiring about Mistress Linkinhorne,’ I replied with what I trusted was a reassuring smile. ‘But I’m not the law.’
‘Oo are you then?’ The door inched shut again and I quickly put a foot in the narrowing gap.
I explained as best I could to the small, suspicious face staring at me through the aperture, at the same time trying to ignore the chorus of sniggers, shuffling and insulting remarks from a gaggle of urchins who had left their play to come and harass this stranger who had been foolhardy enough to stray into their midst. A pebble from a homemade catapult struck me painfully between the shoulderblades. I swung round menacingly and the little army retreated a step or two, but as soon as my back was turned once more, I was hit again. I knew that I probably could, by sheer strength and size, send them packing, but guessed that I should then be confronted by the urchins’ mothers — a far more terrifying prospect.