The Bailiff nodded. “Maybe she can tell us who this woman is,” said he; and stepping a little nearer the porter’s lodge, he summoned the porter’s wife.
Mrs Hiltoft came to the door with little Helen Johnson in her arms. “Well, I don’t know,” said she. “I’ll tell you what: you’d best ask Audrey Wastborowe; she’s a bit of a gossip, and I reckon she knows everybody in Colchester, by name and face, if no more. She’ll tell you if anybody can.”
The Bailiff stepped across the court, and rapped at the gaoler’s door. He was desired by a rather shrill voice to come in. He just opened the door about an inch, and spoke through it.
“Audrey, do you know aught of one Elizabeth Foulkes?”
“Liz’beth What-did-you-say?” inquired Mrs Wastborowe, hastily drying her arms on her apron, and coming forward.
“Elizabeth Foulkes,” repeated the Bailiff.
“What, yon lass o’ Clere’s the clothier? Oh, ay, you’ll find her in Balcon Lane, at the Magpie. A tall, well-favoured young maid she is—might be a princess, to look at her. What’s she been doing, now?”
“Heresy,” said the Bailiff, shortly.
“Heresy! dear, dear, to think of it! Well, now, who could have thought it? But Master Clere’s a bit unsteady in that way, his self, ain’t he?”
“Oh nay, he’s reconciled.”