When I had stumbled through a few disclaimers at this devastatingly forthright speech — disclaimers which she neither believed nor wanted — I told her as briefly as possible what I was doing in London, including the reason for my being there in the first place, and finished by asking her what she knew of Adrian Jollifant.
Ginèvre considered this while the maid was serving us with the first course, a shrimp soup flavoured with garlic, and eventually gave her measured response to the question.
‘He’s a man with an obsession,’ she said, ‘but I imagine a smart young fellow like you has already worked that out for himself. Would he be capable of murdering an entire family in order to satisfy that obsession? Then my answer to that would have to be yes, I think he probably might well be.’ She drank some soup, her expression thoughtful. ‘A few years ago,’ she went on, ‘when his first wife died unexpectedly, there was a good deal of whispering among the other residents of the Cheap that she had died very opportunely, it being well known that Adrian and a certain sprightly young widow who lived in Muggle Street — Monkswell Street, if you prefer its proper name — were more than nodding acquaintances. There was no proof, mind you, that these rumours were anything more than malicious gossip, but it’s true that his mourning was of the briefest. A little more than three months after the first Mistress Jollifant’s death, the second was queening it around the shop and decking herself out in the best wares that it had to offer.’ The thin, painted lips sneered. ‘I’ve never seen a woman so loaded down with necklaces and other ornaments. A silly creature with no taste; no idea of when enough is enough.’
I finished my soup and leant back in my chair. ‘That was delicious,’ I complimented her. ‘You have an excellent cook. But returning to Master Jollifant, I was told that he is not the owner of the shop; that it belongs to his father who has retired.’
Ginèvre nodded, laying down her spoon and leaving at least half the soup in the bowl, too affectedly ladylike to drink it all.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but that’s another cause for talk. The old man is rarely, if ever, seen. It is presumed that he lives on the top floor of the house, but no one knows for certain. At one time, he was a popular and well-known figure around Cheapside, even after he retired.’ She rang a little silver bell and the maidservant reappeared to clear the dirty dishes before bringing in the next course, braised veal in a white wine sauce. (If this had originally been intended as a meal for one, it was difficult to understand why my hostess was not as fat as a sow instead of the near emaciated figure she presented.) ‘But of late, there has been no sighting of him, not even at the top floor window overlooking the street.’
I tucked into my veal with relish. ‘So, what do people think has happened to the old man?’ I asked.
Ginèvre shrugged. ‘They don’t know. There’s gossip, of course, but then there always is. Some fools whisper that he’s been done away with, but what would be the point of that? If Adrian wants to be master of the shop, he needs it to be known that his father is dead. There could be no point in doing things in secret.’
I agreed. ‘And what do you think?’
She laughed. ‘Me? Oh, I mind my own business.’
‘But you must have an opinion,’ I pressed her.
‘I think the explanation is probably much simpler. I think the old man is ill, confined to bed. Adrian Jollifant has never encouraged his neighbours to probe into his affairs, which he keeps to himself — with one exception!’
‘The fact that he believes he has a right to the Arbour?’
‘Yes. This house, which you tell me now belongs to these relatives of your wife, that is his abiding grievance. Obsession is perhaps the better word, as I said. He is not rational on the subject. He speaks as though it has somehow been stolen from him instead of being the present owners’ by legal purchase.’
I broke a hunk off the fine white loaf placed in the middle of the table and began mopping up my gravy. ‘And this is a man,’ I said thickly without waiting to empty my mouth, ‘whom his neighbours believe might have killed his first wife? I agree with you about his father. To do away with him and not produce a body would be to defeat his object. Nevertheless, people seem to believe Master Jollifant capable of murder.’
Ginèvre rang the bell again. This time, when the dirty plates had been removed, wine and dishes of nuts, raisins and last autumn’s little sweet apples were placed before us.
‘I suppose you could say that almost anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances,’ she answered judiciously, pouring wine into two fine glass goblets. (The goldsmith’s shop was certainly thriving as well as it had done in her late husband’s day. But then, I had always thought her a shrewd woman with a clever head on her shoulders.) ‘But if you want my own opinion, I would say yes, I think Adrian Jollifant more capable of it than most.’
‘Because of this obsession of his?’
‘Oh, certainly. Anyone with such an overwhelming belief that something belongs to him by rights and who feels himself robbed of those rights, is irrational enough to believe he is justified in using any means at his disposal to achieve his ends.’
I drank my wine in silence, mulling over what Ginèvre had said. It made sense. But whether it meant that the silversmith actually had resorted to killing members of the Godslove family one by one was a different matter. Why would he bother murdering Reynold Makepeace, who had no interest in the Arbour and had never lived there? But for that one fact, I might have been inclined to believe that I had found my killer. In the circumstances, however, I could not be sure and I decided that it was time for me to pay another visit to Bucklersbury to see if Julian Makepeace had returned from his visit to Southampton.
As soon as I decently could, therefore, I thanked Ginèvre for an excellent dinner and excused myself on the grounds of having a commission to execute for Adela.
‘And the present from Master Jollifant’s shop?’ she queried with a lift of her plucked eyebrows, nodding towards the little box which I had placed on the table beside me. ‘Something to keep your wife sweet and allay her suspicions still further?’ She smiled a fraction too widely, and I noticed for the first time that one of her front lower teeth was missing while another was rotten and black. ‘Does she have real cause for her misgivings, Roger? During the two brief periods of our former acquaintance, I always felt that you might prove to be an unreliable husband. And, believe me, I know what I’m talking about having been married to Gregory.’
I felt the colour flood my face and silently cursed this telltale sign. But I bluffed it out. I was not admitting Ginèvre Napier any further into my confidence. I had been a fool to tell her as much as I had done already.
‘Adela and I love one another,’ I said flatly, rising to my feet, but perfectly aware, as my hostess was herself, that this was no answer to her question.
She accepted it, however, as all she was likely to get and rang the bell yet again for the maid to bring me my hat. But I wasn’t to escape that easily, and when I had put the hat on, she came to stand close to me, pretending to adjust it. I could smell the wine on her breath and felt the slight pressure of her thighs against mine. But thankfully she did not attract me, and I could see by the suddenly hostile glint in her eyes that she knew it.
‘Well, if I can be of any further service to you, my dear,’ she said coldly, stepping back and extending her hand, ‘please don’t hesitate to call on me, either here or at the shop.’ She was not an easy woman to discourage. ‘Promise!’