Read Online 16 - The Three Kings of Cologne by Kate Sedley - Free Book Online Page B

where I can find her?’
    ‘That’s two questions,’ Jonathan reminded me, but answered all the same. ‘She has a cottage on Lord Cobham’s estate. Ask for her in Clifton village. Anyone will tell you where she lives.’ His gaze and voice sharpened, the milky blue eyes focusing on my face, almost as if he were seeing me properly for the first time since my arrival. ‘What do you want with Emilia? She can’t tell you any more than I have done. She’s over sixty now. Old people don’t want to be bothered cudgelling their brains to remember things long gone and best forgotten. It’s upsetting. And the plain truth is, Master Chapman, that Isabella’s been dead to me – and, I suspect, to Emilia – these many years. Finding her body hasn’t made her death any more real, except in the sense that now I know for certain, for a fact, that I’ll never set eyes on her again.’
    He was lying. I could tell it by the tremor in his voice, which he strove valiantly to keep steady, and by the rogue tear that had escaped and was running down one cheek. But I could understand his reluctance to dwell, publicly at least, on the gruesome discovery of his daughter’s corpse. He must blame himself, and also feel that others blamed him, for not making more effort to trace her whereabouts twenty years ago. Had he done so, her true fate might have become known, with a far better chance of bringing the murderer to justice.
    I rose to take my leave of him, but the sight of Miles Huckbody and Henry Dando loitering near the door made me pause and risk asking yet another question.
    ‘Master Linkinhorne,’ I ventured, ‘the jewellery your daughter was wearing – the rings, necklace and girdle by which your cousin was able to identify the body as Isabella’s – was it familiar to you?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘No. Sergeant Manifold brought it to show me, but I’d never seen any of it before. Obviously,’ he added bitterly, ‘Jeanette – Sister Walburga – recognized it.’
    ‘Sister Walburga told me it was given to Isabella by one of her admirers, who was a goldsmith by trade.’
    The old man gave vent to a sudden explosion of furious laughter.
    ‘Then my cousin knows far more than I do. Far more! You’d better go and talk to her again.’
    I could see that he was trembling, his left hand jerking uncontrollably against the tabletop. Guilt consumed me. I leaned forward, once more pressing his shoulder.
    ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Master Linkinhorne. Thank you for your time and patience.’
    He made no reply. I’m not sure that he even heard me. I pushed past Miles Huckbody and Henry Dando without looking at them, resolutely ignoring their whispered questions and muttered indignation when I didn’t answer. Then I was out in the fresh air of the April afternoon, breathing pleasurably and deeply, but possessed by the uneasy reflection that one day I, too, would be old.

Five
    I walked home through the April afternoon with a growing sense of unease; but by the time I approached the Frome Bridge I had managed to pinpoint at least three causes of my discomfort.
    Firstly, I had never before used my talent to make money; never allowed my services to be hired. I had solved mysteries for many people, but always maintained my independence, supporting myself, Adela and the children by my efforts as a pedlar while sorting out those God-sent problems; problems which usually – I’m too modest to say always – resulted in some wrong-doer being brought to justice. Once, the Duke of Gloucester had sent money after me, but it had only supplemented what I had managed to earn for myself and, although undeniably welcome, it had not been vital to my or my family’s survival. Now, however, I had broken my golden rule and was living on John Foster’s bounty while I did my best to unravel the puzzle of who had killed Isabella Linkinhorne. I had established a precedent. And that worried me.
    The second thing disturbing my peace of mind was