16 - The Three Kings of Cologne (9 page)

The tump is a strange place, full of ghostly echoes. Some say that our Celtic ancestors used it as a fort until the Romans drove them out and turned it into a look-out post from which they could survey the river and its approaches, so that raiding parties of Welshmen shouldn’t take them by surprise. Then there are other wilder stories that the mound was built by either the Saracens or the Jews. Ridiculous, of course, but these odd notions take a hold in the minds of country people, often gaining ascendancy over the far more likely, rational explanations. And then there’s the legend of how the gorge itself was hewn out of living rock by the two giants, Goram and Vincent, using one pick which they threw back and forth to one another until the latter accidentally killed the former, and spent the rest of his life in prayer and good works in order to atone.

The memory of this tale reminded me that if I walked down a narrow cliff path I would come to Saint Vincent’s chapel and hermitage, perched high above the gorge like a nesting bird, where Hercules and I might be offered a drink of water and I could make enquiries as to the whereabouts of Mistress Virgoe’s cottage. It turned out that the path was narrower and slightly more dangerous than I had supposed, viewing it in the past from the ground, and rather than risk Hercules plunging to his death over the edge, I carried him in my arms. This proved to be a mistake as he wriggled indignantly throughout most of the descent and I was forced to grab on to the pitifully inadequate rope railing, fastened to the cliff face, with all my might.

The hermit, whose abode was a cave alongside the tiny chapel, greeted us without much enthusiasm; a thin, ascetic-looking man with untidy strands of hair plastered to his otherwise bald pate, watery hazel eyes and rheumatic joints. Very much, I suppose, as you would expect a hermit to be, except that this one seemed to bear a grudge against the world in general and against me in particular for disturbing his morning rest. He took an immediate dislike to Hercules, whom he bade me leave outside, which I refused to do.

‘He’ll be over the cliff edge as soon as I take my eyes off him,’ I protested, ‘and I’m fond of him.’ I was suddenly conscious of the fact that this was true. ‘Besides, I won’t trouble you long. I just want to know where I can find Emilia Virgoe.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

The man smelled offensively, a sour mixture of dried sweat, vomit and old food. The cave was a shallow one, going back only six or seven feet into the rock face and containing nothing but a straw mattress covered by a moth-eaten grey blanket, a couple of pots for cooking, a tinderbox and a knife on a shelf near the entrance. The man’s brown robe was stained with food and various other marks on whose origin I preferred not to speculate. Living in such circumstances, perhaps anyone would be short-tempered and suspicious. On the other hand, living close to God and contemplating the work of His creation was surely intended to make one humble and happy.

‘I wish to ask Mistress Virgoe some questions,’ I said.

The hermit sneered. ‘About that strumpet, Isabella Linkinhorne, I suppose. Oh, don’t think we haven’t heard about the discovery of her body up here! News travels fast where death and scandal are concerned.’

‘Scandal?’ I queried innocently.

‘That girl was a disgrace,’ he declared viciously.

‘You were acquainted with her?’

‘I knew her. I was about her own age and lived on the manor. She was brought up to be a decent, God-fearing girl, and could have had a decent, God-fearing husband had she so chosen. Instead of which, she preferred the ways of Satan.’

Oho, I thought, so you were after her, too, my lad, were you? Except, of course, he was no longer a lad, but a sad, middle-aged man who had embarked on the life of a solitary as a shield against his bitterness and frustration.

‘So,’ I said, ‘these men I’ve been hearing about really did exist, did they? They weren’t just figments of other people’s imaginations? Jonathan Linkinhorne told me that Isabella always denied them.’

‘The man is a fool!’ the hermit rapped back violently. ‘He and his wife believed what they wanted to be true – until it was too late and Isabella had gone. They ignored what everyone told them because they were too old to face up to unpalatable facts.’

‘Did you ever see Mistress Isabella with one of these men?’

‘With all three at one time or another.’ My companion’s voice was full of loathing and resentment, yet tinged with a longing that indicated more clearly than his previous contempt just what his true feelings had been.

‘Where did you see them?’

‘I had an aunt who lived near Westbury College. She’s long dead, but in those days I often used to walk over to see her.’ More often than was necessary, I surmised. ‘Westbury was a convenient rendezvous for all three men to meet Isabella. I’m sure one of them came from Bristol, but not having been there for many, many years I wouldn’t know if he were still living there or not.’

‘And the other two?’

The man shrugged. ‘From round and about. No one I ever spoke to seemed certain of their origins. There was talk of Gloucester and Bath, but whether that was true or not, or just guesswork on the part of others, I had no means of knowing.’ The skinny chest swelled. ‘I did once try reasoning with Isabella, when I met her in Westbury village, but she laughed at me and her companion threatened me with his riding crop and told me to mind my own business or he’d lay it about my sides. I was so incensed that when I returned to Clifton, I went straight to Master and Mistress Linkinhorne and laid the facts before them.’

‘And?’

The hermit’s face darkened with anger. ‘They refused to listen. Accused me of being like everyone else who attempted to make them see reason. Accused me of trying to destroy Isabella’s reputation because she had refused my suit.
My
suit! I had never offered for the trollop!’ Only because he had had a good idea of what, and how scathing, the answer would be, I was sure. ‘Besides, I was already experiencing a calling for the religious life.’

Hercules, whom I was still holding, nudged my face with his cold, wet nose to remind me that we had been stationary for long enough and that it was high time we were moving. I scratched his ears with my free hand and gave him a little squeeze.

‘Had you taken up your office of manor hermit before Isabella disappeared?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘The job didn’t fall vacant until three or four years after that. When the old hermit died, Lord Cobham offered it to me, knowing from his chaplain that I had a religious bent and had no intention of marrying.’

I moved the few steps towards the cave mouth, as if about to leave, but turned back at the last moment as though struck by a sudden thought.

‘Did you, by any chance, happen to see Isabella at any time on the day she vanished? On the day, I suppose, we now know that she died.’

There were a few seconds of complete silence, while the hermit made up his mind whether or not to answer my question. The narrow face was a battleground of conflicting emotions before he finally replied hoarsely, ‘Yes, I saw her.’

‘What time of day?’

‘Around mid-afternoon, perhaps. It was a cold, wet day. Grey skies, overcast, so difficult to tell. And twenty years is a long time ago.’

I agreed, but persisted. ‘Do you happen to remember exactly where you saw her?’

‘She was on horseback, riding down the village street. I tried to catch her eye, but although I’m fairly certain she’d seen me, she pretended she hadn’t and continued on her way. Off on one of her gallops, I thought to myself, to meet one of her men. I used to think that if only I could get her to listen to me, I could show her the error of her ways. But she’d never give me the chance.’

I wasn’t surprised. I could imagine this man twenty years ago; self-righteous, priggish, intolerant, always trying to convert others to his own narrow point of view. I’d met people like him many times in my life and never warmed to any of them.

‘Can you recollect what Isabella was wearing?’ I asked him.

The hermit shrugged again; a favourite gesture it seemed.

‘A cloak probably. I’ve told you, it was cold and wet. A typical March day. At least, I think it was March.’ He considered this statement for a moment or two, then nodded, as though satisfied. ‘She was wearing a cloak,’ he added, just as I thought he was going to jib at telling me anything further. ‘I remember she had the hood pulled well forward, but I knew it was Isabella because I recognized her horse.’

‘You didn’t recognize the cloak she was wearing?’

‘Her cloak?’ He looked affronted. ‘I’ve never taken much notice of women’s clothes.’ He immediately belied this statement by continuing, ‘It was that dark blue cloak of hers with the scarlet lining. It was billowing all around her, like a great sail. Why she hadn’t fastened it properly I don’t know. It would have stopped the wind blowing her skirt up and showing her legs in those red silk stockings and green leather garters she was wearing.’ For one who took no interest in women’s clothing, it occurred to me that he had noticed a very great deal. He confirmed this by repeating, ‘Red stockings, I ask you!’ His tone was scathing. ‘With that gown!’

It was at this point that Hercules finally managed to squirm free of my arms and perform the trick he always tried whenever he was annoyed at being kept waiting: he cocked his leg against mine and peed all down my boot. The hermit suddenly proved that he had a sense of humour – of a sort – and burst out laughing. In fact he was doubled up with mirth and appeared in imminent danger of having a seizure.

I grabbed the miscreant and left.

I
t was not until I reached the top of the path that I realized my original question had remained unanswered. The hermit had failed to tell me where I might find Emilia Virgoe. This, however, proved to be no problem as the first person I encountered, a smiling countrywoman in a brown homespun gown and a snowy-white hood and apron, immediately directed me to the nurse’s cottage.

This stood a little apart from the village, set back from the track known generally as Stonelea; a track that led eastwards and downwards to Bristol in the vicinity of Steep Street. Somewhere near the beginning of the descent the road divided, the left-hand fork being the approach to the village of Westbury which, in all probability, I would be taking later. But not before I had had a word with Mistress Virgoe.

Judging by the height of the sun, the morning was by now well advanced, and I was afraid she might be out and about, gathering wood for her fire or looking for mushrooms that had sprung up in the fields overnight after the previous day’s wet weather. But I need not have worried: Emilia Virgoe was at home, clearing away the remnants of her seemingly frugal dinner. There was no smell of cooking, no pot over the fire and only a crust of bread and a rind of cheese on the plate remaining on the table.

She was a small woman, neat, compact, with a pair of intelligent brown eyes in a wrinkled, weathered face, a short, straight nose and thin lips that curled upwards at the corners as though their owner was ready at any moment to break into a smile. Jonathan Linkinhorne had told me that she was well over sixty, and there was nothing to contradict this statement in the badly gnarled hands that were clasped composedly in front of her once she had opened the cottage door to my knock. But in spite of the wrinkles and knotted joints there was an indefinable air of youthfulness about her that I have noticed in some old people. Spry is the word that I think best described her.

‘Yes?’ she queried. ‘And what do you want, young man?’

I explained as clearly and succinctly as I could, but I need not have feared for her powers of understanding. She listened quietly, her head cocked slightly to one side, and at no time did she ask me to repeat myself. When I had finished, she invited me to enter, holding the door wide and stooping to pat Hercules’s head. He licked her hand and at once made himself at home, stretching out in front of the fire on its central hearth and promptly settling down to sleep.

‘He likes you,’ I grinned. ‘He doesn’t take to everybody.’

Her lips twitched. ‘And I don’t take to every dog I meet. But he’s a nice little fellow. I knew it the second I set eyes on him.’ She saw me looking at the bread and cheese and quietly removed the plate to a broad shelf near the water barrel, then told me to sit down on one of the two stools drawn up to the table. She took the other, facing me, and asked with the same composure she had shown throughout, ‘Now, what is it you want from me? You say you’ve spoken to Master Linkinhorne, so what more can I tell you?’

I countered with a question of my own.

‘Were you shocked to hear the recent news of the discovery of Isabella’s body?’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘You have heard, I assume?’ I did a quick calculation in my head. ‘Now I come to think of it, it’s only four days since she was found.’

The brown eyes lit with amusement.

‘My dear – Roger, did you say your name is?’ I nodded. ‘My dear Roger,’ she went on, ‘how long do you think it needs for such tidings to reach as far as Clifton? We are not living on the moon. The news was all over the manor by Friday morning, and as Sister Walburga had by then identified the remains as those of Isabella, I was naturally one of the very first to be informed.’

‘So … were you shocked?’

Emilia Virgoe hesitated before saying primly, ‘Of course.’

I regarded her severely. ‘Shocked, yes. Naturally. But surprised?’

There was a longer pause, and I sensed my hostess’s sudden discomfort.

‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked at last.

‘The truth would be helpful.’ Then, feeling that this was a little blunt, if not downright rude, I added meekly, ‘Please.’

She gave me a swift smile that puckered the corners of her eyes, but faded to leave her looking sad and somewhat apprehensive.

‘No,’ she admitted at last. ‘Not surprised.’

I leaned my elbows on the table. ‘Mistress Virgoe, did you suspect that Isabella could have been the victim of foul play at the time of her disappearance?’

She delayed her answer by getting up and taking two beakers and an earthenware jar from a wall cupboard and bringing them back to the table. When she unstoppered the jar, the pungent scent of elderflower wine teased my nostrils and I knew that unless I managed to restrain my natural appetite, I should be in trouble. There are fewer drinks more potent, at least in my experience, than elderflower wine brewed by enthusiastic old ladies. The dames themselves usually regard it as harmless, even after it has been stored and allowed to ferment throughout the winter; just a refreshing draft to revive you, they say. Never believe them! It can lay you out flat, to be followed by a splitting headache.