Wheel of Fate (11 page)

‘Naturally.' He laughed shortly. ‘Such a devoted family!' He proceeded on his way, Clemency close at his heels.

‘Well, I must be going along,' Oswald said. ‘I'm due in court this afternoon.' He bent and kissed Celia's cheek. ‘Don't let Roderick Jeavons rile you, my dear. If he weren't such a good doctor, and if he hadn't tended our family for so long, I'd be tempted to find another physician.'

‘No, no! Don't do that,' Celia begged him quickly. ‘He doesn't disturb me.'

Her half-brother patted her shoulder. ‘I'm very glad to hear it,' he said. ‘The Godsloves have never been dependent upon other people. We know how to look after our own.' He smiled fleetingly in my wife's direction at the same time glancing warningly at me. Adela had obviously been accepted as one of the family, however remote the connection, and it was implied that I should do well to remember that fact or I might find myself asked to leave.

I gave a brief inclination of my head and watched Oswald march briskly out of the door. Then I turned to Adela.

‘Shall we go and unpack,' I asked, ‘as Clemency suggested?'

Adela's bedchamber was a large and very chilly room at one side of the house and reached by what seemed to me to be innumerable corridors and small flights of stairs, going both up and down.

‘You'll get used to it,' she laughed when I complained that I should never be able to find my way around such a rambling, topsy-turvy building. ‘It's a very old house and I fancy bits have been added on as its former occupants decided to expand. That little room opening off this one –' she nodded towards a door in one corner – ‘is where the boys sleep. Elizabeth can share it with them.'

I agreed abstractedly. I was not much interested in the domestic arrangements except to notice with satisfaction that the adjacent room had a bolt on our side of the door, which could, and would, be employed in the interests of privacy. I lounged on the great four-poster bed, with its faded hangings depicting the story of Queen Esther and King Ahasuerus, and watched while my wife unpacked the linen sack I had brought with me, shaking out the clothes with exclamations of horror at the way they had been crammed in altogether, without being properly folded.

‘I'll never get the creases out of this,' she said, holding up one of Elizabeth's gowns. She dived further down. ‘Mmm. I see you've brought your good new clothes with you.' She looked suspicious. ‘Was there any particular reason?'

I shook my head impatiently. ‘I just took everything. Never mind that.' I raised myself on my elbows. ‘Adela, what is there between Celia and the doctor? I'd swear there's something. She seems to me to be most uneasy in his presence.'

‘Oh, there's no great secret, if that's what you're thinking,' my wife replied, clucking disparagingly over the state of Elizabeth's shifts. ‘Clemency told me that some ten years ago, after the death of his first wife, Roderick Jeavons wanted to marry Celia. She must have been in her middle twenties then and very pretty. He's a great deal older, but I imagine he was always a handsome man. He still is.' There was a gleam in Adela's eyes that I didn't much care for, but I let it pass. ‘Celia,' she went on, ‘seems to have been equally attracted to him and, without consulting the rest of the family, agreed to wed him.'

‘And when the others found out?'

Adela sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Well, you can imagine! You've seen for yourself how they are. Clemency, of course, said no more than that Celia had later changed her mind having realized she had made a mistake. But I don't suppose for a single moment that that is the real story. My guess would be that she was overwhelmed by the others' tears and reproaches. Told she was breaking up the family. How would they manage without her? And so on. Maybe there were even threats – or implied threats – that she would be cast off completely; that they would never see or speak to her again.'

‘But surely,' I protested, ‘a woman in love wouldn't be swayed by that. A normal woman of twenty-odd must want a home of her own and children.'

‘Not necessarily,' my wife answered abruptly, getting off the bed and turning the linen sack inside out to make sure that nothing had been overlooked. ‘Some women might prefer their freedom.' She hurried on before I had time to digest this cryptic utterance. ‘As I said just now, you must have noticed for yourself, even in this short time, how matters stand in this family. They mean everything to one another. There's something unnatural about it. If I were less charitable, I'd say that Celia, and indeed Clemency, are more than a little in love with Oswald. And from what I have gathered from Arbella, Charity was worse than either of them. Oswald's likes, dislikes, preferences were – still are for that matter – the hub on which the whole house turned. Turns.'

I lowered myself back against the pillows, my arms folded behind my head, wondering what I had let myself in for. The Arbour seemed to be a seething cauldron of suppressed emotions, largely incestuous. Arbella Rokeswood was plainly in love with Oswald, who was probably secretly in love with his half-sister, although that, I guessed, was something he would never admit, even to himself. And what of Clemency, Sybilla, and Charity who had died? There was more, surely, than sibling affection between them. I sighed. I felt I ought to insist on taking Adela and the children home at once, away from this unwholesome atmosphere. But, in spite of myself, my interest had been aroused, as well as an instinct that the Godsloves might be right in thinking that they could have an enemy bent on their extinction. Besides which, there was Reynold Makepeace to avenge.

Reynold. How had such a plain, straightforward, ordinary man fitted into this rarefied atmosphere? And why had he never mentioned to me that he had lived near Bristol, near enough for him, surely, to have known the city reasonably well? I must see and talk to his brother, the apothecary. Also, I must seek out the priest, Father Berowne, and make enquiries at the Bishop's Gate. Someone there could have seen or heard something suspicious relating to the attempt on Sybilla's life. Moreover, there were two potential avengers in the family's midst; the housekeeper, whose plan might be to remove Oswald's siblings one by one until he alone remained, bereft of all those he held dear and ready to throw himself into the comfort of Arbella's embrace. Or there was the physician with a similar scheme, hoping that once Celia was alone, and free of the influence of the rest, she would be glad to marry him. Or, yet again, Roderick Jeavons could simply be out for vengeance on the lot of them, Celia included.

Adela paused in her task of carefully placing my clothes in a cedar wood chest which stood against one wall.

‘You're looking broody,' she said. But when I told her my thoughts, she was aghast. ‘You can't possibly suspect Arbella or the doctor,' she protested.

‘Why not? They both have sound reasons for murder.'

‘Because . . . Because you just can't,' she said, woman's logic taking over from common sense. ‘They're nice people.'

‘And have nice people never been known to commit a crime?' I asked in exasperation. ‘Some very good people have killed in their time, and no doubt will do so again.' (For some reason or other I suddenly found myself thinking of Duke Richard, but for the life of me I couldn't make out why.)

‘I won't listen to such talk,' my wife said firmly, closing the chest with a bang. ‘The killer, as Clemency says, is far more likely to be someone who has a grudge against Oswald. Surely that makes more sense, wouldn't you agree?'

‘No,' I answered bluntly, meeting her outraged glance steadily. ‘In my experience, felons, once they've been caught and sentenced, don't waste their energies on thoughts of revenge. Most have enough to do just surviving in prison. Furthermore, a lot of them have an innate sense of justice that acknowledges the fact that they have done wrong and are being punished.'

Adela came and sat on the edge of the bed for a second time. ‘And what of those who don't believe they have done wrong – or those who really are innocent – and are being unjustly treated?'

I rolled on to my side. ‘I still don't think they would resort to killing off a whole family as a means of retribution,' I said. ‘Oswald maybe. But not his brothers and sisters. And certainly not a stepbrother who didn't even live with him. No! My guess would be a person with a much more personal grudge against the lot of them.'

‘I won't have it!' my wife exclaimed. ‘I won't have you pointing the finger at Arbella or Dr Jeavons. If you must suspect someone unconnected with Oswald's work why not pick on Adrian Jollifant? Now, there's a man I do not like.'

‘Who in the Virgin's name is Adrian Jollifant?' I demanded, once more heaving myself into a sitting position.

Adela waved an airy hand. ‘Oh, he's a silversmith who has a shop in Cheapside. At least, I believe Clemency said it's really his father's shop, but the old man has retired and leaves his son to run the business for him.'

‘And what has this silversmith to do with the Godsloves?' I asked.

‘He wants to purchase the Arbour. Apparently, a long time ago, fifty years or so, it belonged to his family, and now he wants to buy it back again. He seems to think he has a right to it and that Oswald is under some sort of obligation to sell it to him. He's called twice since I've been here, and was most offensive to Clemency and Sybilla on both occasions. Oswald was from home. The second time, he swore he'd have it by hook or by crook and stumped out of the house in a fury.'

This was interesting. ‘What's he like? Old? Young? Fat? Thin? Cross-eyed?'

That made Adela laugh. ‘There's nothing special about him. No distinguishing features. Forty or so I should guess. Solidly built, but not fat. A round face, fair hair starting to go grey. I can't recall the colour of his eyes, but I think they were blue. Well dressed. Expensive clothes. If not downright wealthy, then I should say he has sufficient money and more for all his needs.'

‘And he used threatening language towards Clemency and Sybilla?'

‘Not threatening exactly. He was just rude in the same way Adam is when he can't get his own way.'

‘Which reminds me,' I said, looking around, ‘where is he?'

‘Adam?' Adela smiled with the fond indulgence of a mother speaking of her favourite. (Not that wild horses would ever have got her to admit that she had a favourite.) ‘I persuaded Nicholas and Elizabeth to let him play with them in the garden.'

‘They'll be sorry,' I prophesied before returning to the subject of Adrian Jollifant. ‘I must certainly see this silversmith for myself. I must ask Clemency if she knows his address in the city. If what you say is true, he might well be the person we are looking for. He would be a suspect at the very least. But,' I added, holding up a warning finger, ‘that doesn't mean I've exonerated Mistress Rokeswood or Dr Jeavons. They both have equally good motives for wanting some, if not all, of the family members out of the way.'

‘No,' Adela said ‘I won't have it, Roger. It's preposterous.'

I ignored this. She knew perfectly well that I followed my own path; that I took advice from no one when solving one of my mysteries. And I had to own to myself that I was becoming intrigued by what I had at first thought to be little more than a couple of hysterical women reading more than they should have done into a string of natural accidents.

‘Never mind,' my wife remarked. ‘God will guide you.'

God! Of course! He was playing His tricks on me again. Why hadn't I realized that? He had guided Adela to London, knowing I would follow. Moreover, I decided, chewing my thumbnail, I wouldn't put it past Him to have put it into Juliette Gerrish's head to try and saddle me with her by-blow and thus start this whole chain of events. I had a good mind to pack up immediately and go to find Jack Nym at the Boar's Head in East Cheap. I toyed with the idea for a full minute before doing what I always did where God was concerned. I gave in, albeit ungraciously. Peace of mind returned.

I drew a deep breath. I was committed now, but I had no intention of rushing into anything. There were more important things in life and God would just have to be patient.

‘Are you sure the children are in the garden?' I asked.

‘Yes, of course,' Adela answered, surprised. ‘If you open that window, you can see them. Why do you want to know?'

I twisted around to look to my left. ‘And is that a bolt I can see on the main bedchamber door?'

‘Yes.' She was frankly puzzled now.

I got off the bed and slid the bolt home.

‘What are you doing?' Adela was either being deliberately slow on the uptake or we had been parted for far too long. I rather hoped it was the latter. I didn't care to imagine any reluctance on her part.

I got back on the bed and reached for her hands. ‘I thought,' I said primly, ‘that you might wish to give me a warmer welcome now that we are at last alone.' Then I grinned. ‘I thought you might want to demonstrate how very pleased you are to see me.'

‘If I am,' she answered severely, trying not to laugh.

I took no notice of this and pulled her into my arms.

SEVEN

L
ater that day, with a renewed spring in my step and a sparkle in my eye, I set out to visit Julian Makepeace at his apothecary's shop in Bucklersbury.

The fields around St Mary's Hospital stretched into the distance, softly green under the warm April sun. Here and there, they were starred with clumps of primroses, and beneath a stand of trees sweet violets raised their delicate, purple-veined heads. As I passed St Botolph's church, I reminded myself that I must also speak with Father Berowne, the parish priest who had attended Clemency when she was so ill the year before last; and I wondered uneasily if he were the black-robed figure emerging somewhat furtively from the nearby tavern, where the amount of noise issuing forth suggested that it was as badly run as the majority of inns and alehouses up and down the country. It was small wonder that they were generally regarded by the authorities as centres of vice and crime and closely watched. (In Bristol, I knew that the town constable kept a list of regular frequenters of its numerous places of refreshment, and I suspected that my name had to be somewhere near the top.)