I was sitting up in bed, sweat pouring from my body, every nerve jangling, peering through the darkness of an unfamiliar room. Beside me, Richard Manifold slept peacefully, his steady breathing punctuated every now and then with a sort of gurgling snore. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and still the ragged beating of my heart before lying down again, staring up at the embroidered underside of the bed canopy, with its dimly seen pattern of fabulous beasts prowling through an exotic wilderness of flowers.
Of course! Of course, I thought. I was sure now who had murdered Isabella Linkinhorne. Well, almost. There might still be a doubt.
All the same, ‘Thank You, Lord,’ I whispered into the darkness.
With the early start we had promised ourselves, and with refreshed and reinvigorated steeds, Richard and I reached Bristol in time for dinner the following morning. I left my companion to return our horses to the livery stables and to seek out Mayor Foster to report the success of our mission, and went home to find Adela.
She was, as she always seemed to be, in the kitchen, struggling with a recalcitrant fire that appeared reluctant to burn to heat the pot of stew hanging from the hook of the trivet. (Being Friday, there was more than a whiff of fish in the air.) The hornbooks and styli of the two elder children lay abandoned at one end of the scrubbed wooden table, where my wife had been teaching them their lessons, while Adam had obviously worn himself out because he was curled up on Hercules’s flea-infested straw bed fast asleep. Women, I reflected, not for the first time, were the losers in the game of life; the thankless drudges who smoothed the paths of their men. With a sudden access of guilt, I swung her round and kissed her soundly.
‘Roger! You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.’ Adela took my face between her hands and studied it closely. ‘Something’s happened. You’re looking cheerful,’ she commented shrewdly.
I squeezed her waist until she could hardly breathe and kissed her again.
‘I believe I know who murdered Isabella Linkinhorne,’ I said.
Her eyes widened. ‘Who?’ she demanded eagerly. Then a worried frown creased her brow. ‘Not … not Richard?’ she stammered.
I slackened my hold. ‘Would that matter to you?’
Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘Of course it would. It would matter to me if it were anyone I knew.’
I renewed my grip on her, smiling apologetically.
‘A foolish question. No, sweetheart, it’s not Richard, but — ’ I pressed a finger to her lips — ‘don’t ask me yet for a name. I have to convince myself first that I’m right. There are questions I must ask — or, rather, ask again in order to confirm the answers. But I promise you that today or tomorrow should see an end to this business.’
She was content with that assurance. Adela was never a woman to demand explanations beyond those I was willing to give.
‘You must be tired,’ was all she said now. ‘Come and sit down and eat your dinner.’
As soon as the meal was over — during which my two elder children had forcibly expressed their disgust that I had returned home without bringing them each a gift — I set out at once for Steep Street, Hercules trotting at my heels. I was again particularly careful to make obeisance before the statue of the Virgin, set in the garden wall of the Carmelite Friary, in case Our Blessed Lady had been the source of the information now in my possession. One can never be too careful in placating the hierarchy of Heaven.
Hercules and I reached the top of the street to find that the site of the old graveyard had at last been cleared and that only Hob Jarrett was still working there, loading a few remaining stones and trails of bramble into the cart, where it stood, together with the patient donkey, at the edge of the track.
‘Finished at last, then,’ I remarked affably.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hob demanded, regarding me belligerently from beneath the thick eyebrows that formed an almost straight line across his broken nose.
‘Just an observation. No insult intended.’
He snorted in disbelief. ‘What d’you want?’
‘You were the man who found Isabella Linkinhorne’s body four weeks ago.’
‘Four weeks ago come next Thursday,’ he agreed, his manner thawing a little. ‘Why?’
‘When the body was first exposed, there was a strip of material, some remnant of what she had been wearing, in the grave with her.’
Hob nodded. ‘That’s right. Green stuff, silk or velvet maybe. It crumbled into dust so fast I didn’t properly see. And there was a shoe.’ He shuddered. ‘And some strands of hair sticking to the scalp. Black hair. Gave me a turn, I can tell you.’
‘There was the jewellery, too,’ I reminded him, but he saw fit to take exception to this remark.
‘What are you implying?’ He thrust out his underlip.
‘Nothing, on my life! You’re very touchy today.’
‘Ah, well …’ He shrugged. ‘My goody’s ill, the children need new shoes, and you never know, when one job ends, when the next will come along. Still, I s’pose I can always go back to tenting.’
I thanked him for his help, at which he looked surprised and muttered something that I didn’t quite catch before stooping and heaving another stone into the cart. Meantime, I started back down the hill, detaching Hercules from his interested snuffling around the donkey’s hooves and before that long-suffering animal could retaliate with a hearty kick. The dog looked up at me enquiringly.
‘We’re going for a long walk,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to visit our old friend, the hermit at the great gorge. Try not to upset him this time.’
The morning had turned warm and drowsy, as May days sometimes do, and as we climbed free of the city and the houses that scrambled up the hillside beyond its walls, both Hercules and I slackened our pace somewhat, stopping every now and then to exchange greetings with fellow travellers on the road. There was little news to be gleaned, although a fellow pedlar, who had made his way from London by a circuitous route, said that the Duke of Gloucester had been in the capital recently and that, if rumour were true, there was likely to be war with the Scots before the summer was out. This information chimed with what I had witnessed in Gloucester and what Juliette Gerrish had told me, but I hurriedly put the thought of her out of my mind (or tried to) and proceeded on my way.
As we approached the edge of the gorge and the narrow path leading to the hermitage, I picked up Hercules and settled him firmly beneath my left arm. The chapel of Saint Vincent brooded silently on its cliff top, and the descent to the river below looked even more perilous than it had done last night in my dream.
The hermit was at home, having just returned, if the basket of berries and leaves was anything to judge by, from his daily forage for food. He was as little pleased to see me as on the previous occasion, but seemed resigned, this time, to the presence of the dog.
‘You again,’ he grunted. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s not our day for being welcome,’ I informed Hercules. ‘Is it that we smell, do you think?’
‘It could be that you’re simply a nuisance,’ the hermit suggested sourly, probably aware that he smelled a good deal worse than we did. Not that he would regard it. Men of God were not supposed to waste their time with washing. ‘So? Why have you come to see me? If it’s about Isabella Linkinhorne again …’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘There’s something I need to ask you. Something I need to get clear.’
‘And what’s that then?’
‘You told me, when I was last here, that you saw Isabella the day she disappeared, riding along the village street. It was a wet and windy day — everyone I’ve spoken to agrees on that — and the wind blew back her cloak and also whipped up her skirt, revealing her legs …’