The Holy Innocents

‘I’ve come to ask you some questions,’ I said, ‘and hope that you’ll favour me with some answers, about the disappearance and murder of Andrew and Mary Skelton.’ The thin, childish face looked wary, and I went on quickly, ‘I have the blessing of Mistress Harbourne.’

‘You know Grizelda?’ The pale blue eyes lit with pleasure and the snub little nose wrinkled as she smiled. ‘Are you some distant friend or kinsman come to visit?’ So once again, I recounted the history of yesterday and today, and when I had finished, Bridget sighed.

‘I’m sorry you’re not a member of her kinfolk,’ she said. ‘Grizelda must be lonely with no one of her own. Now that her father and Sir Jasper and Mistress Rosamund are all dead, she’s alone in the world.’ Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘Even the children were taken from her. It’s cruel.’ The words became almost inaudible, and some were completely lost. ‘… can God allow it?’ I heard her murmur.

I put one of my big hands over one of her rough and calloused little ones. ‘We have to have faith,’ I answered gently, ‘and put our trust in Heaven.’

She nodded. ‘I know, but sometimes it’s hard.’ She smiled bravely. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘Anything you can remember about the morning the children disappeared. Take your time. There’s no hurry, and I shall be grateful for the smallest recollection.’

Bridget, becoming aware of her hand still enclosed in mine, blushed and withdrew it before giving her undivided attention to my request. I judged her to have some fifteen or sixteen summers, but she could have been older. She would, I guessed, always look young and immature for her age. There was nothing of her, she was like a little sparrow, with the same brownish colouring and tiny, brittle bones.

‘How long had you been in the Crouchback household?’ I asked, when she seemed not to know how to begin.

‘Oh, it must be four years,’ she said after a good deal of ticking off on her fingers. ‘My mother was alive then, and Mistress Colet was still Lady Skelton. But Sir Jasper was dead. I think he died the year before I went there. My mother was clever with her needle and had done sewing for my lady, and she got me the job when the former girl married and went to live with her husband, over Dartington way.’

‘How many servants did Lady Skelton keep?’

‘Me and Agatha Tenter, the cook, and Mistress Harbourne. I’ve heard my mother say that in Sir Jasper’s time there were two grooms lived in the loft above the outhouses, but Lady Skelton kept only one horse after her father’s death and hired what others she needed from the livery stables near the castle. She also hired one of their stablemen to come in each day to take care of her own mount and tend to its wants.’

‘So you remember the days before Mistress Rosamund married Eudo Colet. Were things very different then?’

Bridget chewed her underlip thoughtfully. ‘It was quieter,’ she volunteered at last. ‘We were a household of women, except of course for Master Andrew, who was too little to count. I suppose,’ she added shrewdly, ‘it was too quiet for my lady, who suddenly went off to London and came back married to Master Colet. Took us all by surprise, that did. Though Grizelda was uneasy, and predicted mischief when Mistress Rosamund didn’t return with Goody Harrison and her husband. Goody Harrison …’

I interrupted quickly. ‘Mistress Harbourne has already explained the circumstances to me. She hated her cousin’s new husband on sight, she tells me.’

Bridget lifted her narrow shoulders. ‘She never had much good to say for him,’ she admitted. ‘Said he was an adventurer, after Mistress Rosamund’s money.’ There was a pause, then Bridget continued, ‘Mistress Harbourne was always kind to me, but I think she was unjust to the master. He was a very fond husband, as far as I could see, and let my lady have her own way in most things. He didn’t object when she said she still wanted to be called Lady Skelton, though most of the townspeople addressed her as Mistress Colet in a nasty, sneering way, as much as to say she’d made her bed and now she could lie in it.’

‘You like Eudo Colet?’ I queried.

Again Bridget hesitated. ‘He didn’t treat me ill,’ she said finally. The pale blue eyes met mine. ‘But no, I didn’t truly like him, though I couldn’t tell you why.’

‘Try,’ I encouraged her.

Bridget stared, a little nonplussed, seeking for words to express what had, up until now, been merely an inchoate feeling. She blurted out at last, ‘He… He had no right to the master’s chair. He was no better than me, than Agatha. He couldn’t read nor write, like Grizelda could. His speech was rough, though he wasn’t from hereabouts. Grizelda spoke true when she said he belonged in the stables or the kitchen.’