The Dance of Death (26 page)

‘And he was satisfied with that?'

Raoul d'Harcourt smiled again. He smiled rather a lot, too much in my opinion. ‘Let us say that he wanted to be satisfied,' was the cautious answer. ‘I'll say no more than that.'

‘But you are not. Satisfied, I mean. You think this knife has some significance. Why?'

The Frenchman emptied his mouth of food, wiped his lips on the back of his hand and grimaced. ‘If you wish me to be honest, I have no real reason. It is just that when I called on you all yesterday evening, to return the saddlebag I had taken from the quayside by mistake and learned that Master Cook was missing and assumed to be drowned, I was surprised – no, rather let us say astonished – by the lack of any great concern except on the part of his sister. Master Armiger, who should by rights have been as distressed as his wife, seemed, if anything, indifferent to the news that his brother-in-law had probably been washed overboard and drowned. And so, when, later, my friend the ship's master sought me out at my inn and told me about the discovery of the knife and the argument he thought he had seen, I began to wonder if perhaps Master Cook's death had not been an accident at all, but murder.'

There was silence for a moment or two except for the crackling of the fire on the hearth. Finally, I asked, ‘And this is your sole reason for believing there might have been foul play?'

‘You think it insufficient?'

‘I do.' I tried to speak positively, at the same time surreptitiously kicking Eloise under the table.

‘You believe it to have been an accident, then?'

‘Without doubt.' I spoke with a confidence I was far from feeling. Indeed, I had been growing hourly more convinced that the cook had been done away with like Humphrey Culpepper and Jeremiah Tucker before him. The Frenchman's story had reinforced this belief, and I had a clear vision of someone sneaking up behind Oliver Cook, either slitting his throat like the other two or simply stabbing him in the back and heaving him overboard. Yet what the motive behind such a killing could possibly be I had no idea. For some unknown reason, I did not wish to share my doubts and uncertainties about Oliver Cook's disappearance with this stranger. I distrusted him, although why I was unable to say, except that he was a foreigner. A good enough reason, you might think, for an Englishman, and you'd probably be right. We're an insular, suspicious lot. The highest compliment we can pay anyone from abroad is to say that he is like one of us.

Apart from that, however, there was something about the Frenchman that I could not warm to.

I returned to the attack. ‘You seem very certain that Master Cook was murdered and not simply washed overboard in the storm. Why is that?'

Our companion shrugged. ‘I am sorry. I spoke a little too positively. I cannot, of course, be certain. But as I said just now, I have crossed La Manche many times, and the weather was not nearly so bad as I have known it on other occasions. What you term a storm was, to me, nothing but a bad mid-Channel squall, insufficient to wash a man over the side – especially a man of Master Cook's impressive build. You must admit he was – is – a very large gentleman.'

‘That doesn't mean to say it couldn't happen,' I argued stubbornly, and addressed myself to my supper with a determination that signalled the end of the discussion. To make doubly sure, however, I turned the conversation by asking through a mouthful of mushrooms and gravy, ‘And what brings you so often across the Channel and back, monsieur? Do you have so much business in England?'

Eloise scowled at my discourteous tone, but Raoul d'Harcourt merely smiled. ‘I am a goldsmith by trade, Master Chapman, and since our two countries are at present at peace, and have been for the past seven years since the meeting of our sovereigns at Picquigny, I travel to London several times a year to both buy and sell among the goldsmiths of Cheapside. I have a shop on the Quai des Orfèvres in the Île de la Cité.' He turned to Eloise as he spoke, deducing correctly from her almost perfect French that she probably knew Paris as well as he did.

She smiled and nodded. ‘I am acquainted with it, monsieur, although,' she added with a throaty chuckle, ‘not as a customer.' At the same time, she sent me a significant look, which I entirely failed to interpret until about ten minutes later, when I recollected that the object of Olivier le Daim's visit to the capital was to consult with the Parisian goldsmiths. (About what we had no idea, but knowing the ways of kings and princes, King Louis was most likely trying to raise a pledge of money from them.) I kicked myself mentally. I really was getting absentminded.

Until he jogged my memory, I had completely forgotten the Frenchman's calling on us at our inn in Calais yesterday evening to return the Armigers' saddlebag and now the reason for Eloise's cousin being in Paris had all but slipped my mind. Why this sudden lack of concentration? What was wrong with me? One glance at Eloise's flower-like countenance, her large eyes fixed with interest on the Frenchman's face, her lips slightly parted as though breathless for his next few words, was enough to tell me that I was suffering from the pangs of frustrated passion. Not love: not for a moment did I delude myself that it was that. I had been in love twice in my life, once with Rowena Honeyman and a second time with Adela, and I knew gold from dross. But I was most certainly in lust with Eloise and it was distracting me from the job in hand. And that could prove very dangerous.

After supper, when the covers had been drawn, I excused myself, saying that I needed to speak to John Bradshaw about the following day's itinerary, which was the truth as far as it went. But there were other matters I needed to consult him about, as Eloise, by the slight flicker of her eyelids, obviously guessed.

‘Don't be too long, then, sweetheart,' she said, playing her wifely role to perfection. ‘And don't stay drinking with him. Really,' she added, turning towards Raoul d'Harcourt with a small, resigned shrug, ‘John is more like a friend than a servant to my husband. You must have wondered at the way he was speaking to Roger out in the courtyard, but too much familiarity always breeds contempt, as I have pointed out time and again, but to no avail.' She rose from her chair and kissed my cheek, also playfully patting my rump. ‘Now, remember! Not too long!'

Truly, the girl had all her wits about her. She had effortlessly explained away that unfortunate scene in the courtyard when John was berating the pair of us whereas my only way of dealing with it had been to ignore the episode entirely and hope the Frenchman read nothing of significance into it.

‘I won't linger,' I promised, returning her kiss with a chaste salute on her lips. They tasted of the wine we had been drinking. ‘Do you travel with us tomorrow, monsieur?' I asked politely, but without enthusiasm.

‘Since you ask, thank you, I should be grateful for the company,' he answered, his eyes mocking me.

‘Splendid,' I said in a flat voice. This time, he gave an involuntary grin, but disguised it as best he could by honouring both of us with a little bow. ‘And allow me to congratualate you on your excellent English.'

He repeated the bow. ‘Thank you, monsieur. I have a flair for languages. I can also speak Spanish and Portuguese with reasonable fluency. There is nothing very clever about it. It is just a knack.'

‘A very useful one.' I summoned up a smile. ‘I shan't be gone long. My wife will entertain you while I'm away.'

‘Enchanted,' he said, turning to Eloise with his most engaging smile.

She returned it, dewy-eyed.

I left them to it.

For once, John Bradshaw and Philip were not bedding down in the stables, which were empty apart from the horses. I eventually ran them to earth in the kitchens, Philip already asleep, lulled by the unaccustomed warmth, curled into a corner on a pile of old sacks. Two young lads were taking the spit apart, ready for cleaning, jabbering to one another, and for one short moment I thought how clever they were to be speaking a foreign tongue at their age. Then reality took hold and I gave myself another mental shake. I must sharpen up, I thought disgustedly.

I looked around for John and found him seated on a stool by the slowly dying embers of the fire, knife in hand, whittling a piece of wood into a cruciform shape, one arm of which he had already embellished with delicately carved leaves and flowers. There being no other seat available, I dropped on my haunches beside him and admired his handiwork.

‘That's beautiful,' I said.

‘It's a talent I've had from boyhood.' He sounded faintly surprised. I was surprised myself. With his big hands it seemed unlikely that he could be capable of such fine work. ‘Did you want me?' he added.

‘I've come to warn you that we shall have company again tomorrow, on the road.'

‘The Frenchman?'

‘Who else?'

John bit his lip. ‘I didn't see him lurking there in the courtyard this evening. He must have wondered when he overheard me addressing you and Mistress Gr— Mistress Chapman as I did.' He shook his head sadly. ‘I'm growing careless. A sure sign that I'm beginning to get rattled.'

‘Don't worry,' I reassured him. ‘Eloise has explained the incident to his satisfaction.' And I told him what she had said.

‘An intelligent woman,' he confirmed. ‘Is that all you wanted to tell me?'

‘No, there's more.' I glanced around to make certain that no one else had entered the kitchen without us noticing, but there were still only the two scullions and a slatternly girl washing the dirty dishes. ‘Monsieur d'Harcourt thinks that Oliver Cook was murdered.'

John Bradshaw stopped his whittling and turned his head in my direction. ‘Tell me,' he murmured.

I related the story of the knife found on the deck by one of
The Sea Nymph
's crew and how it came to be in the Frenchman's possession. When I had finished, John said nothing for a moment or two, then asked, ‘Do you believe him?'

‘Why would he make up such a story?'

‘To divert suspicion from himself, perhaps. After all, what do we know of him? He appears out of the blue at Dover. No one seems at all sure where he was throughout the voyage; he picks up one of the Armigers' saddlebags, apparently by mistake, at Calais, in spite of the fact that he has no saddlebag of his own, merely a baggage roll; and we only have his word for it that this knife was discovered by a member of the crew and brought to him at his inn.'

‘You think he might be a Woodville agent?'

‘Or a French agent. On the other hand, he could be exactly what he says he is, a goldsmith travelling home to Paris, and his story a true one. But it must have occurred to you that Oliver Cook might well have been murdered.'

‘Well, yes,' I admitted. ‘Except that I can see no reason for it. We know he's not the agent of anyone. He's the head cook at Baynard's Castle.'

John Bradshaw laughed softly. ‘And you think that means he couldn't have been recruited or suborned by someone? Offer enough money and you can buy almost anything or anybody. Not everyone makes spying their only profession.'

‘Like you and Timothy.'

‘Exactly.'

I sighed and straightened up. ‘I suppose all we can do is to keep an eye on Master Harcourt. And if he's to travel with us tomorrow, we can do that easily enough.' I held out my hand for the half-finished cross and he laid it carefully in my left palm. I examined it closely in the remaining light from the fire. ‘It truly is beautiful,' I said with the admiration of one who couldn't carve a leg of mutton without making a botched job of it. I grinned as I got in a little dig at him in return for his dressing-down of Eloise and myself earlier in the evening. ‘Not bad for a Hampshire hog.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I'm a Hampshire hog?'

‘I thought I recognized the accent.'

He laughed. ‘Well, you're out there, my Bristol bumpkin. I'm a Suffolk swine. My home town is Ipswich. Most of my kith and kin live there, or roundabout.' He took back the cross from me. ‘As a matter of fact, I'm making this for one of my young cousins, Tom Wolsey. His father, a relation of my mother in the third or fourth degree, is a butcher, and a good one, too. As skilful a carver in his own way as I am in mine and a pleasure to watch. Young Tom's handy with a knife, as well. A big, well-set-up young chap. Only ten years old, but already as strong as an ox. Looks a bit like me,' he added proudly.

‘A good thing in a butcher,' I said.

John Bradshaw gave a shout of laughter that made the scullions and the girl turn to stare at him. He lowered his voice again. ‘The good Lord love you! Thomas ain't destined for the shop. He has brains as well as brawn and his father has ambitions for him. It's Oxford for Master Tom and then probably the Church. Or a secretaryship to some great churchman. That's why I'm making him this.' He touched the half-finished cross with a beefy forefinger and then resumed his carving.

‘I'll see you in the morning,' I said.

He nodded. ‘Sun-up. We need an early start.'

‘Don't we always?' I grumbled.

Thomas Wolsey. That was the first time I ever heard a name that now, in this, my seventy-sixth year, is as familiar to me as my own and a great deal more familiar than the majority of others. Young Master Tom from Ipswich has certainly risen further than most of his generation, and his talents would just as certainly have been wasted in a butcher's shop.

Eloise and Master Harcourt were still seated where I had left them, one on either side of the inn parlour fire, talking away together in rapid French, which slid politely and effortlessly into English as I made my reappearance. It seemed, upon enquiry, that they had been exchanging horror stories about Paris. Or so they claimed.