present visit had nothing to do with this august edifice, and instead I went knocking on the doors of cottages, asking if there was anyone who remembered a March morning, twenty years previously, when a girl by the name of Isabella Linkinhorne had been seen with a male companion somewhere in the vicinity of the village.
As was only to be expected, I was treated to blank stares, often accompanied by loud guffaws and suggestions as to what I could do with myself (and my dog), or to downright rudeness and the deepest suspicion as to my motives. I began to realize that leaving my pack at home had perhaps not been such a good idea. As a pedlar, people regarded me either as a welcome visitor or a nuisance, but not as a potential thief, poking my long nose into their homes to spy out the land with a view to robbing them later. Even Hercules failed to win friends, especially after he leaped over a fence to chase an old couple’s geese into the lane through a gate that someone had carelessly left open. Needless to say I was blamed for this catastrophe, although it was none of my doing, someone else having failed to close the gate. But in the event it proved to have a satisfactory ending, for me, at least. The old couple, angry and abusive at first, were won over by my abject apologies and willingness to help capture the errant birds, who were making a determined dash for freedom. By the time the final one was penned inside the fence again, we were all three exhausted, and the dame, taking pity on me, invited me into the cottage for a drink of ale.
‘Anything, mother,’ I gasped, ‘as long as it’s not elderflower wine.’
‘Elderflower wine?’ she screeched. ‘Got enough to do what with looking after the geese, the pig, the donkey and him –’ she jerked her head towards the old man – ‘without wasting my time making elderflower wine. Sit down, lad, sit down! And make sure that pesky dog don’t get off his leash again.’
I promised humbly to keep the pest under control and ordered Hercules to sit at my feet and keep quiet. To my surprise, he obeyed instantly, which made me suspect that the geese had frightened him a great deal more than he had scared them. The old man turned out to be the dame’s brother, not her husband as I had presumed, and they introduced themselves as Judith and Alfred Humble. An enquiry by the latter as to what I was doing in Westbury and why I was knocking on doors produced the whole story; a tale of murder which not only thrilled them to the marrow of their ancient bones, but also led to Judith Humble banging excitedly on the cottage table with her fist, crying in her piercingly shrill tones, ‘I can remember that girl! Never knew her name, but she was always around here at one time, meeting some man or another. You recollect her, Alfred. You must do! She’d hang around here, talking to you over the fence. You weren’t a bad-looking man in them days, before your hair went white and your teeth fell out.’
‘Ar,’ her brother agreed, when he’d thought the matter over. ‘It were a long time gone, though. Must be. I ain’t had all me teeth for ten year or more. But I do recall her now you bring her to mind. Young, she were. Lovely. Sit on that horse of hers, she would, and chat to me like I were a proper gentleman, not just a cottager. I often wondered what had become of her. Stopped coming all of a sudden like, and I never set eyes on her again. And now you tell me she’s dead. Murdered.’ His faded eyes slowly filled with tears.
His sister sniffed disparagingly. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m that surprised. All those different men she used to meet! I clearly remember thinking to myself, “You’re asking for trouble, my lady! Just begging for it, with your fine clothes and your airs and graces. You’ll come to a bad end, my girl!” And you see, I was right!’
‘When you say “all those different men”,’ I asked, ‘how many exactly were there?’
‘Three,’ was the
As was only to be expected, I was treated to blank stares, often accompanied by loud guffaws and suggestions as to what I could do with myself (and my dog), or to downright rudeness and the deepest suspicion as to my motives. I began to realize that leaving my pack at home had perhaps not been such a good idea. As a pedlar, people regarded me either as a welcome visitor or a nuisance, but not as a potential thief, poking my long nose into their homes to spy out the land with a view to robbing them later. Even Hercules failed to win friends, especially after he leaped over a fence to chase an old couple’s geese into the lane through a gate that someone had carelessly left open. Needless to say I was blamed for this catastrophe, although it was none of my doing, someone else having failed to close the gate. But in the event it proved to have a satisfactory ending, for me, at least. The old couple, angry and abusive at first, were won over by my abject apologies and willingness to help capture the errant birds, who were making a determined dash for freedom. By the time the final one was penned inside the fence again, we were all three exhausted, and the dame, taking pity on me, invited me into the cottage for a drink of ale.
‘Anything, mother,’ I gasped, ‘as long as it’s not elderflower wine.’
‘Elderflower wine?’ she screeched. ‘Got enough to do what with looking after the geese, the pig, the donkey and him –’ she jerked her head towards the old man – ‘without wasting my time making elderflower wine. Sit down, lad, sit down! And make sure that pesky dog don’t get off his leash again.’
I promised humbly to keep the pest under control and ordered Hercules to sit at my feet and keep quiet. To my surprise, he obeyed instantly, which made me suspect that the geese had frightened him a great deal more than he had scared them. The old man turned out to be the dame’s brother, not her husband as I had presumed, and they introduced themselves as Judith and Alfred Humble. An enquiry by the latter as to what I was doing in Westbury and why I was knocking on doors produced the whole story; a tale of murder which not only thrilled them to the marrow of their ancient bones, but also led to Judith Humble banging excitedly on the cottage table with her fist, crying in her piercingly shrill tones, ‘I can remember that girl! Never knew her name, but she was always around here at one time, meeting some man or another. You recollect her, Alfred. You must do! She’d hang around here, talking to you over the fence. You weren’t a bad-looking man in them days, before your hair went white and your teeth fell out.’
‘Ar,’ her brother agreed, when he’d thought the matter over. ‘It were a long time gone, though. Must be. I ain’t had all me teeth for ten year or more. But I do recall her now you bring her to mind. Young, she were. Lovely. Sit on that horse of hers, she would, and chat to me like I were a proper gentleman, not just a cottager. I often wondered what had become of her. Stopped coming all of a sudden like, and I never set eyes on her again. And now you tell me she’s dead. Murdered.’ His faded eyes slowly filled with tears.
His sister sniffed disparagingly. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m that surprised. All those different men she used to meet! I clearly remember thinking to myself, “You’re asking for trouble, my lady! Just begging for it, with your fine clothes and your airs and graces. You’ll come to a bad end, my girl!” And you see, I was right!’
‘When you say “all those different men”,’ I asked, ‘how many exactly were there?’
‘Three,’ was the
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