[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth (9 page)

Chapter Six

I saw Timothy Plummer almost immediately, in spite of the fact that, as Philip had predicted, the ale-room was full to capacity on this fine summer's evening. I felt little or no surprise that I should have clapped eyes on him so soon, even though he and his companion were drawn well back into a secluded corner and were partially obscured from my view by passing pot-boys, rowdy customers and the ample figure of Mine Host himself, as he moved among the tables making sure that everyone was satisfied. Nor did I feel it to be anything except inevitable when Philip seized my elbow and steered me to two seats which his penetrating gaze had spotted within a few feet of where Timothy Plummer was sitting.

'Wait 'ere an' keep my stool for me,' Philip instructed.

‘One o' the pot-boys is cousin to Jeanne. I'll ferret 'ira out, otherwise we could be sittin' around till curfew and not get served.'

I nodded and hooked one leg across the stool next to mine, but once Philip had disappeared into the press my whole attention was absorbed by the bench in the corner. I had suspected that the man with Timothy must be Lionel Arrowsmith, but now that I could confirm the suspicion I was astonished to note that as well as having his right arm still in its blue silk sling, the latter also had his left ankle heavily bandaged and a wooden crutch propped beside him. Somehow or other, in the intervening hours between late last night and early this evening, he had sustained a second injury; a fact which explained the worried expression on both his and his companion's faces as they constantly glanced towards the door, eyeing up every fresh arrival. It would be impossible now for Lionel to risk a meeting with Thaddeus Morgan and somebody else must have been despatched in his stead; most probably that person whom he had described as 'too young and too green'. No wonder they both looked so uneasy.

Philip returned with two beakers of Rybole wine, triumphant at having been served before the other occupants of our table, who quickly raised an outcry at such unfair treatment. Philip was unabashed. 'You gotta know someone in this place,' he told them with a wink and turned to me. 'Now, what d'you think o' that?'

He was right. I had never before tasted such richness of flavour, and afterwards I regretted that at the time I was too preoccupied to do it justice. Although I exclaimed enough to satisfy Philip, my mind was on the two men in the corner, who had suddenly stiffened to attention, their eyes fixed on the ale-house door. My own gaze shifted hurriedly and I saw that a young man had just come in.

I judged him to be not above seventeen or eighteen years of age, slenderly built with delicate, fine-boned features and dark, ahnost black hair, which contrasted with his very pale skin. Surely, I had seen him somewhere recently; or, if not him, someone very like. He turned his head a little, searching the crowd, so that I was able to see him fuller faced, and at once the softly bowed upper lip told me who he was. Had not the shepherd's wife informed me that Matthew Wardroper was the spitting image of his mother? Perhaps that was something of an exaggeration, but certainly this young man brought Lady Wardroper vividly to mind. Moreover, whom else but his own kinsman would Lionel Arrowsmith trust with a secret mission? So, I thought, taking another draught of Rybole and vaguely aware of Philip babbling on in my right ear, I was back at Matthew Wardroper. The wheel had spun full circle; and if I had entertained any lingering doubt that God's finger was in this particular pie it had now vanished. I accepted defeat as gracefully as possible, and all at once I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

I watched Matthew Wardroper edge his way towards the corner bench and noted the questioning, almost agonized looks which the other two men bent upon him. Nor did I miss his despairing shake of the head as he sank down beside Timothy Plummer, who shuffled up to make room for him. Lionel Arrowsmith stared at his cousin in consternation, but unfortunately, just at that moment, Philip reclaimed my wandering attention.

'You ain't bin listening to a thing I've said, 'ave you?' he demanded accusingly. 'You bin watching them three over in that corner. No good denyin' it, 'cos I seen you. What's so fascinatin' about 'em?'

As neither Timothy Plummer nor Lionel Arrowsmith nor young Matthew Wardroper was this evening wearing the duke's livery I could not claim that as a point of interest and was obliged to answer feebly, 'Nothing. I just like looking at people.'

Happily, Philip accepted this explanation.

'Ah well, there ain't no more interestin' folk to be found anywhere in the country, I reck'n, than in London, and you don' come 'ere that often. You're forgiven. 'Ow about another beaker each o' Rybole?'

I realized that it was my turn to pay and thrust some coins into his willing hand, whereupon Philip disappeared again to find Jeanne's cousin, rather than wait to waylay one of the harassed and over-worked pot-boys. As soon as he had gone I turned once more to study the group in the corner. Even had the noise in the ale-room not been deafening it would have been impossible for me to overhear the slightest snatch of their conversation: I was too far away. But the set of their faces told me that all was not well; and when, after some minutes, Matthew Wardroper rose to his feet and again quit the tavern, I concluded that Thaddeus Morgan had failed to keep the appointment he had made.

I emptied my second beaker more slowly than the first, partly to do greater justice to the unrivalled savour of its contents, partly in an attempt to honour my promise to Jeanne that I would not let Philip arrive home drunk, but most of all because I wanted to wait for Matthew Wardroper's return. During Philip's absence I had shifted my position, so that I could both face him and keep my eyes on Timothy Plummer's table, giving as my reason that I had been sitting in a draught. I was thus able to talk and watch at the same time, but as it was at least another half-hour before Matthew Wardroper came back I had difficulty in making my wine last. Philip, indeed, had finished his long since and was set on having a third, an intention it took all my ingenuity to prevent. I was just forcibly restraining him by a hand on his arm when young Wardroper slipped in with a party of latecomers. I could tell at once, by the grim set of his mouth and the sag of his shoulders, that he had had no luck. Thaddeus Morgan had failed to keep the appointment. Timothy Plummer and Lionel Arrowsmith had no hesitation in reaching the same conclusion, a fact made manifest by the look on their faces. As Matthew slid again on to the bench beside the older man, the three heads, grizzled, sandy and black, huddled together in agitated conference.

'This stuff is too potent for me,' I said to Philip. 'I need a walk before we return to Cornhill.' And, brushing aside his protestations that he wasn't ready to go home yet, I ruthlessly hauled him to his feet and propelled him towards the door.

'You're a shpoilshport,' he complained as soon as we were outside. 'I thought a fellow's big ash you'd've had a stronger 'ead.'

'You're already slurring your words,' I admonished him, 'and it wouldn't be fair to Jeanne to have two drunks on her hands.' I gripped his arm firmly. 'Come on. I told you, I've a fancy to stretch my legs before we go home.'

It was fortunate that Philip's wits were already too befuddled to ask why the walk back to Cornhill was not sufficient for my purpose. As it was, he ambled along beside me, still muttering a little defiantly, but otherwise perfectly good-humoured, while I pointed our feet in the direction of Three Cranes Quay.

The wharf was deserted, the three great cranes which gave it its name standing silent and idle. There were a couple of ships moored alongside the wall, one of them so low in the water that it was apparent she had not yet been unloaded. There was no sign of a watch kept aboard either vessel and I guessed that the crews were swelling the throng in the Three Tuns tavern. I walked purposefully towards the other end of the quay, keeping my eyes open for the deserted warehouse.

Thaddeus Morgan had been accurate in his directions. It was at the left-hand corner of the wharf as you faced inland towards the Vintry. One or two of the shutters hung loose from their frames and there was a general air of dereliction which marked it out from its fellows. I trod warily the length of its front looking for an alley where a side door might be situated. In the end, both were located quite easily and I cautiously tested the door with one hand. It yielded at once to my touch and swung inwards with a slight groaning of hinges.

'What you doin'?' Philip's voice whined fretfully behind me. 'What you lookin' for?'

'I'm not sure,' I whispered. 'Bear with me. Stay outside if you want to.'

Philip gave an indignant snort and peered over my shoulder. Just inside the door, revealed by the triangle of fading daylight which penetrated the darkness, the dust had recently been disturbed. Somebody had been standing there for quite a while and it was not difficult for me to guess that that somebody had been Matthew Wardroper, waiting for the missing Thaddeus Morgan.

I tried to put myself in the young man's shoes. He was probably more than a little afraid and somewhat overawed by this highly secret mission, which had apparently been entrusted to him after his cousin Lionel's second mishap.

He had been told that the errand would be brief, a single name breathed in his ear. He could then return to the safety of the inn. Instead, he had stood here all alone with a growing sense of unease and danger. Every sound would have made him start and in a place such as this there was bound to be the creaking of settling timbers. He would have been as jumpy as a cat and therefore disinclined to investigate the warehouse further. But beyond the immediate vicinity of the door was a vast and echoing blackness which might possibly contain some clue as to the fate of Thaddeus Morgan.

Why I considered this likely I had no idea, except for that instinct, that sixth sense, which I have always believed is God's way of pointing us in the direction He wishes us to go.

'I'm going to take a look around,' I said to Philip. 'I shan't be long. Wait here for me.'

'Fuck that,' he retorted cheerfully. 'If you're goin' in, I'm comin', too. Though why in God's name you 'ave to go pokin' around a dirty, smelly old warehouse what's been left to the rats and mice, I don't know.'

I didn't enlighten him and he was just drunk enough not to care about the answer. He followed me inside, tripping noisily over his own two feet and giggling like an idiot as he did so. When he had picked himself up I pressed a hand on his shoulder.

'Hold hard a bit, while our eyes get accustomed to the darkness.'

He did as he was bid, standing docilely at my side until the gloom began to assume form and shape, revealing the beams overhead and what looked like a ladder for mounting to the second storey in one corner. A couple of barrels stood in the middle of the floor, while a bundle of some sort lay against the farthest wall.

'Nothin' 'ere,' Philip whispered, the quiet of the empty warehouse beginning to affect him.

I, too, felt that it would be desecration to raise my voice and whispered in return, 'Nevertheless I'll just look around and make sure.'

I moved forward slowly, the musty smell of damp and disuse strong in my nostrils. Now and then I heard the scurry of a rat or a mouse as it ran for the safety of its hole.

In the middle of the room I paused. Philip was right, there was nothing to be found down here and I was just considering whether, without a light, it would be wise to venture up the ladder when the sound of a groan lifted the hairs on the nape of my neck. I spun round and saw that the bundle against the wall was moving. In two strides I had reached it, ignoring Philip's startled cry of fear, and fallen on my knees. What I had thought to be some abandoned rubbish was in truth the body of a man, and of a man still living.

But not for long. Even as, with trembling hands, I lifted him in my arms, he gave one last, gasping cry and his head lolled backwards. Thaddeus Morgan - for I had not the smallest doubt of his identity - was dead.

I turned my head and looked up to see Philip, his hand over his mouth, the whites of his horrified eyes clearly visible in the gloom~ standing beside me. At the same time I realized that my right hand, which was pressed against Thaddeus Morgan's breast, was growing warm and sticky with what could only be blood. Whoever had killed him had stabbed him and I wondered if the murderer's weapon might still be lying around somewhere, although it was far more likely that he had taken it with him.

'For God's sake come away!' Philip was urging. 'Leave the poor devil for the Watch to find. 'S none of our business. '

'I think I know who he is,' I said. 'I want you to do something for me. Go back to the Three Tuns and look for those men who were sitting in the corner. If by some mischance they've already gone, search the surrounding streets in the direction of Baynard's Castle. Tell them Roger the chapman sent you and that it's urgent they come at once, but make no noise about it. If they show any reluctance, whisper- and I mean whisper - the name of Thaddeus Morgan.'

Philip sniffed. 'I should've remembered you was mixed up in something fishy the last time we met,' he remarked bitterly. 'But I didn' suppose as 'ow you made an 'abit of it. All right! All right! I'll go. But 'ow c'n I be sure I got the right villains? I didn' mark 'em all that well, though I could see you was intrigued by 'em.'

'They're not villains,' I said. 'One's about your own age, the second's a youth of seventeen or so and the third, well, you can't mistake him. His right arm's in a sling and his left foot is bandaged. He's using a crutch.'