I took a deep breath. ‘What was Goldsmith’s Moresby’s baptismal name? Did you ever hear it?’
It was one of the other men, the polisher with the rabbit’s foot, who answered.
‘It were Robert an’ I remember right.’
Robert Moresby. R.M. It seemed too good to be true — and experience had taught me that it probably was. For a start, there was as yet no proof that this man was the ‘Melchior’ whom I sought. Secondly, even if he were, there was again no proof that R.M. was the murderer. And thirdly … Well, thirdly, a thought that had really only just occurred to me; how did I persuade a man to admit that he was a killer and run his head into a noose? Nevertheless, I could not ignore so promising a lead, for it seemed to me that I could safely wager on Master Robert Moresby, goldsmith, being one of the three men I was seeking.
I obtained the niece’s direction from my friendly bellows man — learned, too, from him that her name was Juliette Gerrish — thanked him profusely and took my leave, Hercules trailing behind me. I had the distinct impression that my informant and his fellow workmen were sorry to see me go: I had not only provided them with a diversion, but had also managed to infuriate their master. He might vent his spleen on them later, but their half-grins and secret side-long glances at one another indicated that they considered his anger worth it.
As I approached the abbey it became obvious that someone of importance — or someone who thought he was important; not necessarily the same thing — was either just arriving or just leaving. The stamp and jingle of moving horses and the sharp, high-pitched clamour of the human voice were everywhere to be heard, bouncing back off the old grey walls and filling the surrounding alleyways with their echoes. Brothers and lay brothers, grooms and pageboys were scuttling across the abbey green like so many worker bees in a hive, so I hurriedly made myself scarce in case the hub of all this activity was someone with whom I had a nodding acquaintance from those days when I had performed some service for the Duke of Gloucester.
I had been directed by the bellows man to a small enclave of houses known as Cloister Yard on the north side of the abbey and, as instructed, knocked on the first door I came to. There was a moment’s pause before it was thrown open and a laughing voice exclaimed, ‘You’re back early! What’s happened? Wasn’t Master Harvey in?’ The words died away as the young woman who had answered my summons gave a little gasp and stood gaping up at me, an expression of ludicrous astonishment on her pretty face. ‘Who … who are you?’
I tugged off my cap and smiled down at her. ‘Mistress Gerrish?’ I enquired.
She was of no great height, at least not by my standard, but she would probably have been regarded as a trifle short in most company. Standing beside me the crown of her uncovered head, with its profusion of copper-red curls, reached only an inch or so below my shoulders. But what she lacked in stature, she made up for in animation. Her large eyes, regarding me with such comical dismay, were the soft velvety brown of pansies, but there was a mischievous sparkle to them that belied their seeming docility and gentleness. At first glance I assumed her to be about eighteen, but a second, closer look informed me that she was not quite as young as I had supposed. In reality she was, I judged, somewhere in her mid-twenties (and she later told me that she had indeed seen twenty-five winters and would be twenty-six in August, on Saint Oswald’s Day).
‘Sweet Virgin!’ she exclaimed now in mock alarm. ‘A veritable giant! And what can I do for you, Goliath? If it’s my uncle you’re wanting, he’s gone to visit a friend outside the city and won’t be back until curfew.’ At this juncture, Hercules made his presence known, sniffing the hem of her skirt, and she at once dropped to her knees, fondling his ears. ‘What a dear little dog!’ Never slow in recognizing a well-wisher, Hercules licked her face.
‘Ah!’ I exclaimed, disconcerted. ‘If your uncle is Master Robert Moresby, then yes, I was hoping to talk to him. You say he won’t be returning until curfew? Perhaps, in that case, I’d better wait until tomorrow.’
‘Do you live in Gloucester, Master Goliath?’ she asked. Her eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘I’m sure you don’t or I should have noticed you, and so would every other girl in the city.’
‘I live in Bristol,’ I answered, and was about to add, ‘with my wife and children,’ but for some reason forbore to do so.
‘And you’ve come all this way to speak to Uncle Robert?’ Her eyes widened. ‘It must be very important. What’s it about?’
I was taken aback by this direct question. I could hardly say, ‘I want to know if he murdered a young woman twenty years ago.’ So, instead, I mumbled awkwardly, ‘It … it’s … a … a personal matter. I … I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve no doubt Uncle has his secrets, like everybody else. And whatever they are, they’re not my business. But don’t run away.’ She held the door open invitingly. ‘It will be dinnertime soon. Come inside and share mine. It’s all right,’ she added with that swift, winning smile of hers. ‘You won’t regret it. I’m accounted a very good cook. Indeed, I doubt if Uncle Robert would have stayed with me if I hadn’t been. He’s fond of his belly.’
I regarded her severely. ‘Do you often do this with strangers? Invite them indoors when you’re on your own and unprotected? How do you know I’m not a robber or a murderer or a … a …?’
‘Or that you’ll rape me?’ She finished my query for me. ‘I hope I can read men’s faces better than you give me credit for doing. I’m no green girl, you know, whatever you might think. Now, I can offer you pigeon pie, a slice of venison, apple and cinnamon coffins and some fine Rhenish wine from my uncle’s cellar to wash it down with. And don’t tell me that doesn’t tempt you because I’d wager you’d be lying. A man of your size needs to be a good trencherman.’
She had taken my measure and nodded with satisfaction as I stepped past her into the house. I heard her shut the door behind me.
She was a kind woman with an especial fondness for animals, serving Hercules first with a bowl of clean water and a plateful of broken meats. He made short work of this and was ready to be a nuisance by the time my hostess and I sat down to table. But I knew him of old and had already asked Mistress Gerrish’s permission to shut him in the kitchen.
It was a pleasant two-storied house with, on the ground floor, dining parlour, buttery and kitchen, all opening off a stone-flagged passageway. There were two more doors which were closed, but obviously gave access to other rooms, making it a dwelling of commodious size and a fitting place of retirement for a successful goldsmith. Then I remembered that Master Moresby had gone to live with his niece, not the contrary.
Over our meal I probed, as delicately as I could, the household circumstances.
‘I’m a widow,’ Juliette Gerrish told me frankly. ‘When he died five years ago, my husband left me wealthy and childless. But not lonely. My uncle had moved in with us four years before that, when he became ill and had no one to care for him.’
‘You must have been married young,’ I observed. ‘Very young.’
She nodded. ‘I was barely fifteen, but no younger than many girls. Mind you, I don’t advocate it. After my miscarriage, I was never able to conceive again.’ Her foot found mine under the table, whether accidentally or not I wasn’t sure at the time. ‘But,’ she added cryptically, ‘such barrenness has its advantages.’
I ignored this, although, deep in my mind, a warning bell rang, but not loudly enough it seemed.
‘You’ve had visitors in Gloucester today,’ I remarked thickly, through a mouthful of excellent pigeon pie. ‘Abbey Green is humming with activity.’
My hostess smiled and helped me to a large and succulent slice of venison, at the same time adding another helping of pie to my laden trencher.