‘Ignore him,’ I advised. ‘He’s quite capable of foraging for himself if you’re plagued with rats or mice. If not, any old scraps will do.’
She shook her head, laughing, and cut a collop of meat in two, throwing him the larger portion.
‘Like master, like dog,’ she said, piling a thick trencher of stale bread with bacon, flanking it with wheat cakes and bringing it to the table. ‘You both have good appetites.’ She sat down opposite me and started to eat her own breakfast.
‘Mistress Gerrish,’ I began, then realized how ridiculous such a mode of address sounded in the circumstances. ‘Juliette …’ I paused, uncertain how to continue.
She glanced up and regarded me with that glinting smile of hers.
‘It’s all right, Roger. You’ve nothing to worry about. I don’t make a habit of hounding the men I seduce and making their lives miserable. I shan’t come to Bristol to find you and stir up difficulties between you and your wife. It’s just that I’ve been a widow for a long time now and have to take my pleasures where I can find them. You’re not the first man I’ve lain with and you won’t be the last. That shocks you, I can see, but it shouldn’t. Women need men in the same way that men need women, although I know most men don’t like to think so. Men are different, isn’t that what you all believe?’
She was right. I was shocked; shocked and more than a little aggrieved if the truth be told. I was wounded in that most vulnerable of spots: my vanity. I had crassly assumed that she had found me irresistible, not that anyone passably good-looking and in possession of all his limbs (and, of course, other working parts) would do just as well. I suddenly felt extraordinarily sheepish.
She put down her knife, sucked her fingers clean, got up and came round the table to drop a kiss on the top of my head in much the same way as a mother humours a troubled child. Then she fetched me more bacon before resuming her seat.
‘Uncle Robert said he would be home in time for dinner,’ she said, wiping her mouth free of grease on the hem of her sleeve. ‘And as he likes his food as much, if not more, than you do, I can rely on his word. It would be best to let him think that you haven’t long arrived, don’t you agree?’ I did, fervently. Juliette nodded and continued, ‘Couldn’t you give me a hint of why you wish to speak to him?’
I realized with even greater clarity that after last night, to tell her the truth would be impossible. She would find out soon enough when I had gone, and the discovery would probably make her take me in instant dislike. For some reason, this upset me. I could only hope that Master Robert Moresby would be able to exonerate himself to my satisfaction, so that I should have no further cause to suspect him.
‘I’d … I’d rather not,’ I answered.
Once again, my companion accepted my reluctance without demur, as, I guessed, she accepted most setbacks in life. She was plainly not an argumentative woman, and I reflected sadly that she was wasted looking after an elderly relative when she would make some man such an excellent wife. She blew me a kiss and collected the knives and other dirty utensils together.
‘Wait in the parlour,’ she told me. ‘I’ll let Uncle know you’re here as soon as he arrives. Will you stay to dinner?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It depends.’
Once more she refrained from asking on what, merely handing me Hercules’s belt and advising me to walk him around the neighbouring streets for a while. I did as I was bidden, then tried to settle down to wait for Master Moresby’s return.
It being Sunday, the town was quiet except for the ringing of bells summoning people to worship. Cloister Yard was silent as the grave, only the spasmodic shuffling of feet or a voice imbued with Sabbath hush penetrating the unshuttered window of the parlour. By the time I eventually heard the clop of hooves outside, followed by the raising of the front door latch and a man’s deep tones, answered by Juliette’s affectionate lighter ones, I had almost persuaded myself to return to Bristol and report failure on this entire case to Mayor Foster. It was all too long ago, and the possible disruption to innocent folk’s lives too great a risk to take.
On the other hand, murder was murder whenever it had been committed, and only the previous year I had helped to clear my own half-brother of a crime that had been perpetrated many years before. Isabella Linkinhorne’s ghost demanded equal justice. What had passed between me and Juliette Gerrish the night before should not, must not, be allowed to prevent that.
Time passed. Someone — obviously the new arrival — went out again and led the horse away, presumably to the stables. I heard Juliette’s voice upraised in song while she clattered pots and pans in the kitchen. The palms of my hands were sweating. Some of my unease must have communicated itself to Hercules, causing him to whimper and twitch, even in his sleep.
The parlour door opened, making me jump, and Robert Moresby came in.
He had to be over forty, a fact attested to by the wings of grey hair at his temples, but he moved with all the sprightliness of youth. There was nothing now to suggest that he had ever been so ill that he had been forced to give up work and go to live with his niece and her husband. Juliette’s ministrations had plainly made him a hale and hearty man again.
I knew at once that ‘Melchior’ must be the one of the three suitors who had been described to me as handsome. He still retained his good looks in the long, aristocratic nose and high arched cheekbones. His eyes, of clear Saxon blue, were evenly spaced, while the lips, neither too full nor too thin, parted to reveal excellent teeth. A determined jawline completed the picture. He paused just inside the door, regarding me curiously.
‘My niece says you have business with me, Master …?’ In addition to his other attributes, he had a most pleasing voice. It was difficult to see why some scheming Gloucester spinster or widow had not managed to lead him to the altar by now. It would not be for want of trying, I was sure. And yet, according to the bellows man, Robert Moresby had never married.
I got to my feet. ‘Roger Chapman,’ I said. ‘At your service.’
He eyed me up and down, taking in my well-worn tunic and mended hose. I was not the sort of person he normally had dealings with, at least not in his niece’s parlour. I looked what I was; a ragamuffin of the road, to be met with at back doors and in kitchens, peddling my wares.
‘And what can I do for you, Master Chapman?’ He motioned me back to my chair and seated himself in another with arms and an abundance of soft cushions, which I had not dared to defile with my plebeian buttocks. ‘My niece tells me that you are making enquiries on behalf of Mayor — Foster, is it?’ I nodded. He continued, ‘Mayor Foster of Bristol. As far as I am aware, His Worship is unknown to me.’
I took a deep breath, hesitated, then plunged.
‘Master Moresby, I believe I am right in thinking that many years ago, you were acquainted with a Mistress Isabella Linkinhorne.’
He stared at me, his mouth falling slightly open, half-rising from his chair. This was the last thing he had expected, this sudden confrontation with the past, and he seemed, for the moment, too shocked to answer.
‘Isa … Isabella L–Linkinhorne?’ he manage to gasp out finally. Indignation replaced astonishment. ‘Sweet Virgin! That was twenty years or more ago! What about her?’
‘You admit you did know her then?’
‘Yes, I knew her.’ He spoke with sudden venom, as though the memories conjured up by the name were bitter. ‘What, in God’s name, is this all about?’
‘How well did you know her, Master Moresby?’ The handsome features were suffused with a rush of blood, and I hastened to avert his very natural wrath. ‘Forgive me, but these are not idle questions. When I explain the reason for them, I hope you’ll understand.’