his hood to reveal a bald head, with a few wisps and tufts of white hair growing low down around the ears. I suspected that he had once been an imposing, powerfully built man who found the indignities of ageing more trying than most. When he spoke, his voice rasped with resentment.
I had a sudden vision of him in his middle years; a man used to being in command, used to being obeyed by everyone with whom he came into contact, lording it over wife and servants, confident in all his dealings with the world around him. Then, suddenly, he had found himself confronting a will-o’-the-wisp of a girl, lovely to look at, physically fragile, but with a will of iron, a determination to dominate matched only by his own. He, who all his adult life had known nothing but subservience, would have been confused, bedazzled by this glorious, unpredictable creature he had fathered and blinded by his love …
Jonathan Linkinhorne repeated impatiently, giving equal emphasis to every word, ‘Do I know you?’
I pulled my wandering thoughts together and plunged into my explanation.
When I had finished, there was a lengthy and unnerving silence while my companion drummed with his fingers on the tabletop, a sign of agitation that was in no way reflected on his face, which remained an expressionless mask. At least, so I thought until I was shocked to see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, then trickling unchecked down his lined and weathered cheeks.
The silence continued to stretch while I gave us both time to recover our composure. I disliked intruding into anyone’s private grief, and silently deplored John Foster’s desire to uncover the truth of past events. The past was dead: let it lie.
This uncharacteristic state of mind did not last long, however, and I was immediately all ears when Master Linkinhorne suddenly roused himself, blinking rapidly like a man coming out of darkness into light – or like a man reaching a decision after a long period of uncertainty.
‘It’s extremely kind of our new Mayor to interest himself in my affairs,’ he said grudgingly, ‘but I doubt if he – or, rather, you, as his instrument – will be able to find out much after all this time. The year that Isabella disappeared was the year in which King Edward won the battle of Mortimer’s Cross and seized the crown from King Henry … It seems like another life.’
And so it did. My lord of Gloucester and I had both been eight years old – nine at the beginning of that October – and Edward of York, now growing ill and bloated from an excess of food, wine and women, had been regarded as the handsomest man in the whole of Europe; over six feet tall and as dazzling as the sun. His badge, the Sun in Splendour, had then reflected his glory: nowadays it was nothing but an empty mockery of what he had once been.
I said gently, ‘The discovery of your daughter’s body must have been a terrible shock for you, Master Linkinhorne. But surely you must have some desire to know what happened to her? Who murdered her?’ He made no response. I hesitated, then went on, ‘Did … forgive me, but did neither you nor your wife ever consider the possibility that some harm might have befallen Isabella?’
He was silent for a moment or two longer, then slowly shook his head.
‘I daresay you think we should have done,’ he said at last, ‘but I’m ashamed to say that it never so much as crossed our minds.’
‘Can you …? Do you know why not?’
Again there was a protracted pause as though he were struggling to come to terms with something that was almost too painful to contemplate.
‘Isabella,’ he murmured at length, ‘was always threatening to run away from home.’ He drew a long, ragged breath. ‘My wife, Master Chapman, was over forty when our daughter was born. I was five years older. We had given up all hope of having a child, so Isabella was … was like a miracle sent by God. And we knew that we should have no more children. Foolishly,
I had a sudden vision of him in his middle years; a man used to being in command, used to being obeyed by everyone with whom he came into contact, lording it over wife and servants, confident in all his dealings with the world around him. Then, suddenly, he had found himself confronting a will-o’-the-wisp of a girl, lovely to look at, physically fragile, but with a will of iron, a determination to dominate matched only by his own. He, who all his adult life had known nothing but subservience, would have been confused, bedazzled by this glorious, unpredictable creature he had fathered and blinded by his love …
Jonathan Linkinhorne repeated impatiently, giving equal emphasis to every word, ‘Do I know you?’
I pulled my wandering thoughts together and plunged into my explanation.
When I had finished, there was a lengthy and unnerving silence while my companion drummed with his fingers on the tabletop, a sign of agitation that was in no way reflected on his face, which remained an expressionless mask. At least, so I thought until I was shocked to see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, then trickling unchecked down his lined and weathered cheeks.
The silence continued to stretch while I gave us both time to recover our composure. I disliked intruding into anyone’s private grief, and silently deplored John Foster’s desire to uncover the truth of past events. The past was dead: let it lie.
This uncharacteristic state of mind did not last long, however, and I was immediately all ears when Master Linkinhorne suddenly roused himself, blinking rapidly like a man coming out of darkness into light – or like a man reaching a decision after a long period of uncertainty.
‘It’s extremely kind of our new Mayor to interest himself in my affairs,’ he said grudgingly, ‘but I doubt if he – or, rather, you, as his instrument – will be able to find out much after all this time. The year that Isabella disappeared was the year in which King Edward won the battle of Mortimer’s Cross and seized the crown from King Henry … It seems like another life.’
And so it did. My lord of Gloucester and I had both been eight years old – nine at the beginning of that October – and Edward of York, now growing ill and bloated from an excess of food, wine and women, had been regarded as the handsomest man in the whole of Europe; over six feet tall and as dazzling as the sun. His badge, the Sun in Splendour, had then reflected his glory: nowadays it was nothing but an empty mockery of what he had once been.
I said gently, ‘The discovery of your daughter’s body must have been a terrible shock for you, Master Linkinhorne. But surely you must have some desire to know what happened to her? Who murdered her?’ He made no response. I hesitated, then went on, ‘Did … forgive me, but did neither you nor your wife ever consider the possibility that some harm might have befallen Isabella?’
He was silent for a moment or two longer, then slowly shook his head.
‘I daresay you think we should have done,’ he said at last, ‘but I’m ashamed to say that it never so much as crossed our minds.’
‘Can you …? Do you know why not?’
Again there was a protracted pause as though he were struggling to come to terms with something that was almost too painful to contemplate.
‘Isabella,’ he murmured at length, ‘was always threatening to run away from home.’ He drew a long, ragged breath. ‘My wife, Master Chapman, was over forty when our daughter was born. I was five years older. We had given up all hope of having a child, so Isabella was … was like a miracle sent by God. And we knew that we should have no more children. Foolishly,
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