Read Online 13 - The Midsummer Rose by Kate Sedley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Sedley
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and lie down, Roger. You haven’t been well.’
‘I’m telling you—’ I began hotly.
But I was ignored. The sergeant was already directing two of the men in the crowd to carry the body to Saint Nicholas’s Church and give it temporary lodging in the crypt.
‘I’m telling you the truth, you dolt!’ I shouted. But instead of reacting angrily, as I had expected, Richard merely smiled in a nauseatingly patient and long-suffering way. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’ I went on desperately. ‘Why not, when the evidence is right there, in front of your eyes?’
‘Lad,’ he said, in such a condescending tone that I could barely keep myself from hitting him, ‘I’ve been to Rownham Passage. I’ve made enquiries. Nothing happened. No one saw or heard anything at all suspicious. Now, enough’s enough. Off you go and leave me to get on with the Sheriff’s business.’
I wasn’t sure that he was as unconvinced by my identification of the corpse as he was pretending to be. The trouble was that he couldn’t resist taking me down a notch or two in public, any more than I could have withstood a similar temptation. Adela was right: the rivalry between us had reached absurd proportions, especially as we both knew the true state of her affections. But Richard resented me, while I was unable to rid myself of an irrational jealousy of him.
I shrugged. ‘Let me know when you need to pick my brains again,’ was my parting shot. ‘Because you will, when you find out I’m telling the truth.’
The crowd had begun to disperse even before the corpse was removed. Violent death was too much of an everyday occurrence to engage people’s attention for long. I turned to resume my broken journey back to Small Street, and blundered into a young woman standing just behind me, catching her as she staggered and nearly fell beneath my weight. My first thought was that although she looked strained and somewhat troubled, she was extremely pretty. My second, as I was hit by a painful jolt of recognition, was that I knew her – had, indeed, once fancied myself more than a little in love with her.
‘Rowena Honeyman!’ I gasped.
It struck me later that she was nothing like as surprised to see me as I was to see her. But then, as it transpired she was staying in Bristol, I suppose she had already guessed that we might meet at some time or another.
I must have been goggling, open-mouthed, like a stranded fish. She smiled faintly and released herself from a clasp that had become more of a support for me than for her.
‘Rowena Hollyns,’ she corrected me. ‘The
Widow
Hollyns, to be precise.’
‘H–Hollyns?’ I croaked stupidly. ‘Widow Hollyns? Are you sure?’
But even as I realized the crassness of my question, memory stirred. I was transported back two years and more to the village of Keyford, near Frome, where I had gone, not only in pursuit of one of my investigations, but also in the hope of meeting Rowena Honeyman, who lived there with an aunt. I had been desperate to engage her affections, but before I could make a fool of myself, a neighbour had informed me of her betrothal to a young man whose name was Ralph Hollyns.
But another memory was jostling for position. Only yesterday, Marianne Avenel had told me that her sister-in-law’s companion was a Mistress Hollyns. It would be too great a coincidence to have two women of that name take up residence in the city together. They had to be one and the same person.
It might mean nothing at all, of course. I had yet to clap eyes on Mistress Alefounder, and until I did, there was little to connect her to the murder at Rownham Passage. I found myself hoping that Adela was wrong; that there was no similarity between the woman in the brown sarcenet and Robin Avenel’s sister.
‘Allow me to escort you home, Mistress Hon – er, Mistress Hollyns,’ I offered.
She was as beautiful as ever, with soft, rose-petal skin, eyes as blue as cornflowers and a full, gently curving
‘I’m telling you—’ I began hotly.
But I was ignored. The sergeant was already directing two of the men in the crowd to carry the body to Saint Nicholas’s Church and give it temporary lodging in the crypt.
‘I’m telling you the truth, you dolt!’ I shouted. But instead of reacting angrily, as I had expected, Richard merely smiled in a nauseatingly patient and long-suffering way. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’ I went on desperately. ‘Why not, when the evidence is right there, in front of your eyes?’
‘Lad,’ he said, in such a condescending tone that I could barely keep myself from hitting him, ‘I’ve been to Rownham Passage. I’ve made enquiries. Nothing happened. No one saw or heard anything at all suspicious. Now, enough’s enough. Off you go and leave me to get on with the Sheriff’s business.’
I wasn’t sure that he was as unconvinced by my identification of the corpse as he was pretending to be. The trouble was that he couldn’t resist taking me down a notch or two in public, any more than I could have withstood a similar temptation. Adela was right: the rivalry between us had reached absurd proportions, especially as we both knew the true state of her affections. But Richard resented me, while I was unable to rid myself of an irrational jealousy of him.
I shrugged. ‘Let me know when you need to pick my brains again,’ was my parting shot. ‘Because you will, when you find out I’m telling the truth.’
The crowd had begun to disperse even before the corpse was removed. Violent death was too much of an everyday occurrence to engage people’s attention for long. I turned to resume my broken journey back to Small Street, and blundered into a young woman standing just behind me, catching her as she staggered and nearly fell beneath my weight. My first thought was that although she looked strained and somewhat troubled, she was extremely pretty. My second, as I was hit by a painful jolt of recognition, was that I knew her – had, indeed, once fancied myself more than a little in love with her.
‘Rowena Honeyman!’ I gasped.
It struck me later that she was nothing like as surprised to see me as I was to see her. But then, as it transpired she was staying in Bristol, I suppose she had already guessed that we might meet at some time or another.
I must have been goggling, open-mouthed, like a stranded fish. She smiled faintly and released herself from a clasp that had become more of a support for me than for her.
‘Rowena Hollyns,’ she corrected me. ‘The
Widow
Hollyns, to be precise.’
‘H–Hollyns?’ I croaked stupidly. ‘Widow Hollyns? Are you sure?’
But even as I realized the crassness of my question, memory stirred. I was transported back two years and more to the village of Keyford, near Frome, where I had gone, not only in pursuit of one of my investigations, but also in the hope of meeting Rowena Honeyman, who lived there with an aunt. I had been desperate to engage her affections, but before I could make a fool of myself, a neighbour had informed me of her betrothal to a young man whose name was Ralph Hollyns.
But another memory was jostling for position. Only yesterday, Marianne Avenel had told me that her sister-in-law’s companion was a Mistress Hollyns. It would be too great a coincidence to have two women of that name take up residence in the city together. They had to be one and the same person.
It might mean nothing at all, of course. I had yet to clap eyes on Mistress Alefounder, and until I did, there was little to connect her to the murder at Rownham Passage. I found myself hoping that Adela was wrong; that there was no similarity between the woman in the brown sarcenet and Robin Avenel’s sister.
‘Allow me to escort you home, Mistress Hon – er, Mistress Hollyns,’ I offered.
She was as beautiful as ever, with soft, rose-petal skin, eyes as blue as cornflowers and a full, gently curving
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