10 - The Goldsmith's Daughter (6 page)

There was another silence as the Duke’s attention again began to stray, the expression on his tired face becoming ever more haunted.

I cleared my throat. ‘And Your Highness wants me to discover the truth of this matter, if I can?’

‘What? Oh . . . Yes! That’s why I sent for you, Roger. Mistress Shore is very unhappy that her cousin is still being whispered about by her neighbours.’

My thoughts were racing. Why was the Duke of Gloucester interesting himself in this affair? He disliked the King’s mistress, so why was he hoping that I might be able to clear the name of one of her kinswomen? What did any of it matter to him, especially at a time when he had far greater worries to occupy his mind?

But of course! Fear for the Duke of Clarence was the reason. He was convicted but not yet sentenced. There was still time for clemency on the part of the King. And what my lord of Gloucester needed above all else was as many voices as possible raised on Clarence’s behalf; as many people as he could muster to plead for the Duke with King Edward in order to counteract the influence of the Queen and her family. And who would be listened to with more sympathy than a favourite leman? But first he had to find an inducement, a lure, in order to persuade Jane Shore to embrace his brother George’s cause. So if, at his instigation, I could clear her kinswoman of the suspicion of having murdered her husband, then he would have the necessary bait.

Duke Richard laughed suddenly. ‘Your face, Roger, is as easy to read as an open book. You’ve guessed, I think, why I’m asking for your help in this matter.’

I gulped down the rest of my wine, half rose and replaced the empty goblet on the table beside him, then subsided again into my chair.

‘But what if this cousin of Mistress Shore
is
guilty of murdering her husband, my lord? What then? What good will that be to you?’

He sighed, pushing the curtain of hair out of his eyes. ‘Then at least we shall know the satisfaction of having brought a criminal to justice,’ he said heavily. And when I did not answer, he asked, ‘Well? Will you do this for me?’

‘Do I have a choice, my lord?’

‘You always have a choice, Roger. You know that.’

But I was not so certain that I did. People of the Duke’s standing never realise how used they are to being obeyed until someone challenges their authority. Not that I was about to do so. For one thing, my loyalty to Richard of Gloucester was as strong as ever, my affection for him undiminished; for another, however hard I tried, I could never quite suppress the feeling of excitement that invariably overwhelmed me when presented with a challenge to what the Duke had flatteringly called ‘my special powers’. Wherever there was a mystery, I could not rest until I had solved it.

I thought guiltily of Adela. I had come to London to show her the city, and now here I was proposing to desert her for part of that time; maybe a great deal of that time. I thought even more guiltily of the Lampreys, and wondered if Jeanne would be kind enough to take my abandoned wife under her wing. I could imagine all too well what Margaret Walker would say when we returned to Bristol and the truth was revealed.

This reflection prompted me to say, ‘My lord, my wife and I are due to leave London a week today with the carter who brought us here. If it should happen that I’ve not solved this problem by then . . .?’

‘You will stay until you have done so, and I shall make all necessary arrangements for you and your wife to be conveyed home to Bristol once the matter is successfully concluded. Before you leave Crosby Place tonight, Timothy Plummer will take you to see my treasurer, who will ensure that you have sufficient money for any extra expense you may incur. Now, is there anything else you wish to ask me?’

I glanced at him to see if he were serious; then protested indignantly, ‘My lord, you have told me practically nothing! Merely that there is a goldsmith living in West Cheap whose daughter is suspected of murdering her husband. What is this woman’s name? What were the circumstances of the husband’s death? Who else might possibly have had a reason for killing him? How many people are there in the household? And how am I to make their acquaintance?’

The Duke laughed again, but there was neither mirth nor warmth in the sound.

‘You must forgive me, Roger. My wits are gone woolgathering.’ He thought for a moment before enquiring, ‘Where are you staying in London?’

‘At the sign of Saint Brendan the Voyager, in Bucklersbury, not far from West Cheap.’

‘Ah! Then someone will call upon you there sometime tomorrow morning, to conduct you to Mistress Shore’s house in the Strand. She is the best person to tell you anything you need to know.’ A faint spasm of distaste contorted his features. ‘I will make all the necessary arrangements tonight.’ He rose to his feet and I rose with him. He held out a hand once again, but when I would have kissed it, he stopped me and gripped one of mine instead, as if I were a friend. ‘Do your best for me, Roger. As you’ve guessed, I need Mistress Shore’s help in . . . in a certain matter.’

Mistress Shore lived in one of the magnificent houses that border both sides of the Strand, hers being one of those whose gardens run down to the river. The young man, dressed in the Duke of Gloucester’s blue and murrey livery, who had presented himself at the Voyager soon after dinner that morning, was obviously expected, and had no difficulty in gaining entry for the pair of us.

When I had returned to the inn the previous evening and told Adela all that had passed between the Duke and myself at Crosby Place, she had made no difficulties and uttered far fewer recriminations than I felt I merited. For this, two reasons were, I think, responsible. Firstly, in her condition, she was finding London noisier, busier and more tiring than she had expected; secondly, she had become close friends with Jeanne Lamprey, who was proving a restful and sympathetic companion, solicitous, as only another woman can be, for Adela’s welfare. A very early morning visit by myself to their old clothes shop in Cornhill had put both Jeanne and Philip in full possession of the facts, and provoked the latter into lecturing me on the folly of not heeding good advice when it was offered.

‘I warned you, Roger, not to attend the Duke of Clarence’s trial! You’d already been spotted once by my lord of Gloucester at the wedding. To risk bringing yourself to his notice for a second time was the purest folly. You’ve got no more than you deserve.’

Jeanne told him to hold his tongue and promised to take care of Adela during those hours that I should necessarily be forced to spend in West Cheap. And I had a suspicion that both she and my wife continued to relish this glimpse into the lives of those normally so far above them, and were not altogether displeased by the turn of events.

The Duke of Gloucester’s envoy and I were shown into a lofty hall where, surprisingly, a homely spinning wheel stood close to the hearth on which a bright fire burned, welcome on such a cold and cheerless winter’s morning. An embroidery frame and coloured silks lay scattered over the central table of carved and polished oak, while an ancient, moth-eaten dog was ensconced in one of the hall’s three armchairs, dribbling contentedly into a red satin cushion. My companion, to my amusement, eyed it askance. Like me, he had no doubt expected the King’s favourite mistress to own an elegant little greyhound, bedecked in a jewelled collar and velvet coat.

My heart began to warm towards Mistress Shore, even before she put in an appearance. But when she finally arrived, hot, somewhat flustered and full of apologies for her tardiness in receiving me, I knew that whatever the Duke of Gloucester felt about this woman, I liked her, and was willing to serve her for her own sake, as well as his.

The young man who had brought me to the house made me known to Mistress Shore and then, with a bow and a flourish, took his leave. When he had departed, she gave me a conspiratorial smile.

‘Now we can be comfortable.’ She looked me up and down. ‘You’re very good looking,’ she said, but without any hint of invitation or coquettishness in her tone. ‘You remind me of the King when he was younger.’

I could feel the hot blood rising in my cheeks. ‘Y-you’re very kind,’ I stammered.

She only smiled and shook her head. ‘Shall we have some ale? I prefer ale to wine. His Highness says that that’s because I have low tastes, and of course, he’s perfectly right.’ She giggled.

I thought her enchanting, and could see why most men – with one very notable exception – would find her so. Jane Shore had a happy disposition.

After she had called a servant and given orders for the ale to be brought, she grew serious, settling herself in one of the two unoccupied armchairs and inviting me to sit in the other. She patted the ancient dog’s head as she passed, and he briefly opened a bleary eye and twitched his ragged stump of a tail before going back to sleep again.

‘His Grace of Gloucester tells me that you are a solver of mysteries,’ she said. ‘He has told you a little, has he not, about my kinswoman, Isolda Bonifant?’

‘A very, very little,’ I replied earnestly. ‘That is why I am here this morning, to learn, I hope, a great deal more from you.’

The ale arrived and she poured it into two pewter beakers, wishing me good health before she drank. ‘It was fate,’ she said, ‘that brought you here; fate that the King should have discussed my cousin’s plight with his brother. I hope that you will be able to help Isolda, Master Chapman, for it’s no pleasant thing for her to have neighbours, and even friends, whispering about her behind her back. Which she knows they must do by the way they grow embarrassed in her company, or avoid her altogether if they can.’

‘That I can well imagine. Now then, if you please, will you tell me the background to the story?’

It was a straightforward enough tale. As Duke Richard had said, a cousin of Mistress Shore’s father, one Susannah Lambert, had married a goldsmith, Miles Babcary of West Cheap. The couple had had only one child, Isolda, born in June, 1448, the year after their marriage. This girl, according to my companion’s account, had never been pretty, even as a child, and had grown plainer as she grew older, a fact which had made it difficult to find her a husband. She was also, it appeared, fiercely independent, the mother having died when her daughter was only thirteen, and Isolda having assumed the role of woman of the house from that day forward.

Two weeks after her twenty-fourth birthday, she had finally married. Her husband, Gideon Bonifant, was ten years older than his bride and of inferior status, having been no more than assistant to an apothecary in Bucklersbury before the wedding. But Miles Babcary had been so relieved to see his only child settled and happy at last that he had, as well as welcoming Gideon into his home, also taken him on as a partner, patiently teaching his new son-in-law the business of goldsmithing from the lowliest task to the most complex. Master Bonifant had proved himself to be an apt pupil and the business throve, the one sadness being that after five years of marriage there was no sign of a grandchild for Miles; no immediate heir after Isolda to inherit his shop and his money.

The Babcary household, as well as an apprentice and maid-of-all-work, also consisted of Miles’s niece and nephew, his younger brother Edward’s orphaned children. Edward Babcary had died at the battle of Tewkesbury fighting for King Edward in the spring of 1471, and his wife had died of plague two months later. At that time, Christopher Babcary had been thirteen years of age, his sister only eleven, and with typical generosity, Miles had offered them the shelter of his roof. His nephew he had taken on as a pupil in the shop, while Eleanor Babcary had proved a useful assistant to Isolda in the running of the house. Even after Isolda’s marriage the following year, no serious changes were deemed to be necessary, and the domestic and business arrangements of the Babcary household had carried on in much the same way as before, except that with both his son-in-law and his nephew learning the trade, Miles had needed only one apprentice.

And so matters had continued for the next five years, until the autumn of 1477.

‘I have to admit,’ Mistress Shore said, her colour slightly heightened, ‘that although I used to be a frequent guest of my father’s cousin and his daughter, I have lost touch with them of late, for the past three years in fact, since . . . since I came to live here, in this house,’ she finished.

I nodded understandingly: she had had less to do with the Babcarys since becoming the King’s mistress. But she was not a woman who would ever consider herself of so elevated a status that she would ignore her kinsfolk completely. Some contact had been maintained with the family, and when Isolda Bonifant had been suspected of murdering her husband, Mistress Shore had brought all her considerable influence to bear upon the King in order to ensure that no charge was brought against her cousin.

‘For I didn’t, and still don’t, believe Isolda guilty of such a crime,’ she said belligerently, jutting her chin and daring me to question her judgement. ‘There has to be another explanation, and if people weren’t so bigoted, they’d see that for themselves. Friends and neighbours who’ve known her all her life must know that she isn’t capable of killing anyone. It isn’t in her nature.’

Such blind faith made me uneasy. ‘How did Master Bonifant die?’ I asked.

‘He was poisoned.’ Mistress Shore sounded defiant, as well she might. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking! That poison is a woman’s weapon.’

‘It’s easier for them to use than either the dagger or the cudgel,’ I pointed out. ‘On the other hand, I’ve known women who have resorted to both those methods, and men who have administered poison. They say it’s a favourite means of despatching enemies in Italy. Do you know what poison was used?’

Mistress Shore hesitated. ‘I think it was aconite, monkshood, or so Miles Babcary informed me. I’m not sure how he knew. I suppose the physician or the apothecary who was called recognised certain symptoms.’

‘Undoubtedly. I believe it causes burning pains in throat and stomach, and the victim has great difficulty in swallowing. The muscles of the neck stiffen, and after ten minutes or so, breathing becomes impossible.’