‘Lie down and be good,’ I admonished him. ‘I shan’t be long.’
The inside of the house had the same slightly rundown appearance as the exterior, suggestive of the fact that there was just not quite enough money to keep things as they had once been, although Lady Claypole’s solar, up one flight of stairs and at the side of the house overlooking the flower garden, was comfortable and well-furnished with an armchair, plenty of cushions, a spinning wheel and a small intricately carved chest on which stood a silver ewer and a tumbler made of fine Venetian glass.
The lady herself was a woman well past the first flush of youth — over fifty I guessed — who had once been pretty in a plump and fair-complexioned way, but whose pasty cheeks now sagged and whose blue eyes blinked short-sightedly from beneath lashes that were almost colourless. I noticed, too, that she had grown a little careless, the bodice of her red velvet gown stained here and there with food and splashes of wine.
‘Well, my man,’ she demanded, ‘what is it you want? Master Steward has been babbling some nonsense about the Mayor of Bristol.’ She snorted derisively. ‘You don’t look like a friend of His Worship to me. If I find you’ve been wasting my time …’
She didn’t complete the threat, having had a moment or two to take in my size, and realize that she probably had no one capable of throwing me off her manor. I should have to be humoured if she wanted me to go quietly.
I glanced around for somewhere to sit, but there was nowhere, so I propped myself against the wall facing her and told my tale as simply and as succinctly as I could. Indeed, I was tired of repeating the story and made it as brief as possible for my own sake as much as hers. To her credit, Lady Claypole listened without interruption until I had finished, when her first question, somewhat to my surprise, was, ‘He’s still alive, then, Master Moresby?’ A faint flush mantled her cheeks. ‘How is he?’
‘In good health, as far as I could tell. But not having met the gentleman before Sunday, I’m unable to say for certain. Lady Claypole, can you remember back twenty years to the last occasion on which you saw Robert Moresby? That day he waited here for Isabella Linkinhorne to join him.’
‘Oh, yes. I recollect the day well and his bitter disappointment, his anger, when she failed to arrive. Both my husband and I tried to persuade him that he had been deceived in her, that she had never intended to go away with him.’ My companion smiled thinly. ‘I could have told him the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.’
‘The truth?’
Lady Claypole tittered. ‘I had friends in Westbury. I was a good horsewoman in those days and often rode that way. I knew that this woman Robert had set his heart on was playing him false with at least one other man, most likely two.’
‘You didn’t feel it your duty to enlighten him?’
She shook her head. ‘I know men better than that. When a man fancies himself as deeply in love as Robert did with her — that creature — he doesn’t want to hear the truth. The only person who loses by it is the teller. And I had no wish to forfeit his friendship.’
I suddenly realised that Lady Claypole had been in love with Robert Moresby and jealous of Isabella Linkinhorne. But that was not my business. I asked, ‘Can you recollect what the weather was like that day Master Moresby waited here for Isabella and she didn’t come?’
‘Easily. It was early March and the windiest, wettest day we had had for several weeks. Indeed, at first we all — myself, Sir Peter and Robert — thought it was the conditions that were delaying the girl’s arrival. It was only as the day wore on and mid-afternoon was approaching, when the lashing rain and terrible wind had eased considerably, that it began to dawn on us that she wasn’t coming. After supper, Robert — er, Master Moresby,’ she corrected herself, ‘decided to ride out to look for Isabella. But it was getting dark by that time, and I think that in his heart of hearts he had convinced himself that she had never intended to keep her promise. It was what Sir Peter and I had thought all along. But now — ’ Lady Claypole sounded aggrieved — ‘you tell me the girl had been murdered, so perhaps we were wrong.’
I didn’t enlighten her as to the truth of the matter. And in any case, how did I know what the truth was? Maybe Isabella had been on her way to Hambrook Manor to keep her rendezvous with Robert Moresby when she had been waylaid by someone else (one of her other two swains?) with news or information that had caused her to change her plans. I heaved myself away from the wall and prepared to take my leave.
‘Your ladyship has been most gracious …’
‘You can spend the night here, if you care to, Master Chapman. The local hostelry is not one I would wholeheartedly recommend.’ She must have noted my hesitation and added quickly, ‘You would be doing me a favour. I have had little outside company throughout the winter, and I begin to feel cut off from the world.’
‘There is a dog,’ I said, ‘at present tied up, but in general, no respecter of persons.’
That forced a thin smile from her. ‘He can be fed in the kitchens and sleep by the fire. Will you stay?’
I told myself that it would be foolish to refuse, and found it hard to understand my reluctance to accept the offer. I bowed.
‘I should be honoured, my lady.’
She nodded, taking this for granted, and summoned her Steward. I was handed into this gentleman’s keeping and shown to a small chamber on an upper floor where, in due course, a ewer of hot water and a towel were brought to me by the young maid I had seen earlier drawing water from the well. Servants seemed to be in short supply at Hambrook Manor. I dropped my satchel on the bed — a large four-poster whose hangings had seen better days — propped my cudgel just inside the door, poured the water into a basin, then stripped and washed from head to foot, ridding myself of the dust and grime of the last three days’ walk. I took my spare shirt from my satchel, shook it out and dressed again, cleaned my teeth with the willow bark I always carried for that purpose, combed my hair with an ivory comb I had brought with me from my pedlar’s pack and sat down to wait until the Steward should reappear to conduct me to wherever Lady Claypole was taking supper.
I looked about me, at my surroundings. The chamber, as I have said, was a small one, but not so small as it seemed, on account of the size of the bed. This took up most of the floor space with just enough room left over for a carved oak chest on which stood the basin, a candle in its holder and a tinderbox. There was a single window, at present unshuttered, the pale, late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the oiled parchment panes. The bed curtains and counterpane, no doubt once vibrant with colour, were all faded to a uniformly greyish hue so that it was almost impossible to make out what story they had once depicted. However, I managed to trace with one finger what looked like a head on a plate and guessed it to be that of Salome and Saint John the Baptist.
For some reason I was unable to fathom, I felt a strange sense of unease. The whole house depressed me and I discovered, to my consternation, that I was shivering. Was I ill? I didn’t think so. My cheeks were cool, my heart beat as strongly as ever. I sprang up and went for a walk along the corridor outside the chamber. This led to a flight of steps at the far end, which in turn led to an unbolted door opening into the garden. Somewhere close at hand I could hear the grunting of the boars and sow. I returned to my room and once more waited for Master Steward to fetch me to supper.
‘And you say,’ Lady Claypole remarked, picking delicately at a curd flan, which was short on cheese, butter and saffron to my way of thinking, ‘that Mayor Foster, when he has built his almshouses, intends also to build a chapel dedicated to the Three Kings of Cologne. Surely that will prove to be most unpopular with the good citizens of Bristol? Does he not know that Cologne is part of the Hanseatic League? Does he not appreciate that the Rhinelanders are poaching much of England’s trade? You see that I am not entirely unaware of what is happening in the world outside these walls.’