11 - The Lammas Feast (26 page)

‘No. But when I glanced round a few seconds after noticing him, opposite, he’d vanished. Or it seemed to me he had. Perhaps, after all, he’d just crossed the road and disappeared into the shadows. There were a lot last night because of the moonlight.’ She paused, then said, ‘It was only when I found Cicely’s body this morning that I assumed he must have come in here.’

‘Because you thought I was the man and that I had a motive for murdering Mistress Ford?’

She nodded mutely. I tried to feel angry with her, but failed. Marion Baldock had not known me well. I would reserve my bile for John Overbecks and Richard Manifold. Nevertheless, I had no wish to linger in her presence.

‘Let me know when the funeral is to be,’ I requested, then swung on my heel and abruptly left the cottage.

O
nce outside, I untied Hercules and fended off his frantic attempts to jump up and lick my face, as though we had been parted for months instead of minutes. But I did not immediately respond to his efforts to lead me off down Saint Michael’s Hill, towards the tantalizing smells of the butchers’ and hot-pie stalls of the fairground. To his great frustration, I stood staring at the opposite side of the road, picturing the shadowy figure Marion Baldock had seen the previous night, and wondering who he could possibly be. A man of my girth and height! I knew no one amongst my acquaintance who would answer such a description. Small wonder that everyone had leaped to the wrong conclusion, especially after it was discovered that I had the perfect motive. I thanked God devoutly for Philip Lamprey and his fondness for ale. Otherwise, I would most surely now be languishing in prison.

Was this mysterious man Cicely Ford’s murderer? If so, had he also killed the stranger? And did he have any connection with the deaths of Jasper Fairbrother and Walter Godsmark? Four murders now; four murders in eight days. It had been a week ago today that Jasper’s body had been discovered, and still no one seemed to have any idea who had done it, or whether or not it was connected to the three subsequent killings. The chain of events appeared to have started with the arrival of the nameless Breton, but was that really so? Had he truly been a spy? Had he been the Tudor agent that Timothy Plummer had been warned to expect? Or had the genuine man slipped quietly through the net while his pursuers were chasing shadows? There were so many questions still unanswered.

It seemed fairly certain that the dead man was a foreigner – with my own eyes, I had seen him disembark from a Breton ship – but I had never disproved my earlier theory that he might be a Welshman. Nor had I confirmed it, either. In short, four murders had stirred the law to very little activity – although that might change now that Cicely Ford was one of the victims – and my much vaunted powers of deduction to even less.

Hercules growled and, seizing the slack of the rope between his teeth, shook it violently to let me know that he was tired of waiting. He had no patience with all this standing about and staring: he wanted action. I bent and patted his head reassuringly, then began to descend the hill. But grief for Cicely suddenly overwhelmed me, and I found that tears were streaming silently down my face, and that I was quite unaware of the path I was taking. Only Hercules and blind instinct were keeping my feet on the right road.

As we crossed the crowded fairground, I was suddenly seized upon by Philip Lamprey, who darted out from behind his stall. It showed how much my mind was wandering that I had not even noticed he was so close.

‘Roger! What news? Is everything all right? You haven’t been arrested again?’

‘Of course I haven’t been arrested again. Does it look like it?’ I asked irritably. Then, remembering what I owed him, I moderated my tone. ‘You and Brother Nicodemus gave me the perfect alibi.’ I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll never reproach you with your drinking habits again, old friend!’

He shook his head glumly. ‘If only Jeanne would say the same. But it’s an old soldier’s habit, I’m afraid.’ He raised his voice slightly to be heard above the general tumult. ‘Getting drunk kept us from thinking too much about the terrible things we’d seen and done every day. Indeed, very often we couldn’t have carried out what we had to do without being three sheets in the wind.’

His words reminded me of something similar that John Overbecks had said to me quite recently.

‘Were you, by any chance, at the sack of Fougères?’ I asked.

Philip scratched his pockmarked nose. ‘Nah! That was . . . when? ’49? I’d only’ve been a youngster at the time. Not more’n about sixteen, I reckon. The Low Countries were my patch. But I’ve heard the sack of this Foogeers – or however you call it – talked about. Nasty old business, by all accounts. It seems the worst of it was, we were supposed to be beating all hell out of the Normans, but had wandered into Brittany by mistake. Leastways, that was the version I heard. Could be wrong, mind you. Probably is. Anyway, old friend, next time I come to Bristol, I shall expect to be invited to stay in this house of yours. A house owner!’ He beamed at me. ‘Whoever would have thought it? Wait until I tell Jeanne of your good fortune! She’ll be as delighted as I am!’

I had no doubt of it: they were a couple who never envied anyone’s luck. But Philip’s mention of the house in Small Street only served to remind me of how it had come into my possession. I felt the tears sting my eyelids again, and used Hercules, who was now yapping furiously at a couple of strays who were roaming the fairground, as an excuse to move on.

‘Leave them alone,’ I instructed him firmly. ‘There, but for the grace of God and my misguided benevolence, go you.’

The intelligent hound lifted his lip and cocked his leg against a convenient whelk stall, before continuing to clear a path for me through the mid-afternoon crush of people visiting the fair. Some of them had spilled over into Lewin’s Mead, where they were engaging in a bout of fisticuffs, making me glad that Adam and Adela had gone to Redcliffe to see Margaret. There was, however, someone standing at the door of our cottage, patiently knocking: Ethelreda the huckster, carrying a basket of bread.

‘There’s no one in,’ I called, approaching her. ‘My wife and children aren’t here.’ I pushed open the door, reflecting that in future, in Small Street, we should have to remember to lock up the house before we left.

‘Your Lammas bread,’ Ethelreda said, producing from the basket on her arm one rose-petal loaf, blush-pink, and one plum loaf, a rich shade of indigo, wrapped carefully in dock leaves to keep them moist. ‘Store ’em out of the sun, Master Overbecks says, and they’ll stay fresh until Saturday. You can pay the master when you see him. It’s bad enough settling up with him for the ordinary bread. I’m not saddling myself with any extra cash.’

‘I’m going that way now,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay him this very afternoon.’

‘There ought to be more like you, Chapman,’ she grinned, swinging her big hips provocatively, as she turned to go. She glanced back over her shoulder and winked. Hercules growled his disapproval. He objected to me being propositioned, even obliquely. I was going to have trouble with that dog, I could tell.

I went into the cottage and put the loaves, still wrapped in their dock leaves, in the earthenware crock that stood at the back of the room, where the sunlight never reached. Then I poured myself a cup of ale and, while I drank it, stood listening to the unaccustomed silence. Soon, within months, maybe, this might become a daily pleasure. I couldn’t recollect much about the Small Street house, and had never seen beyond the ground floor. But I felt sure that, in a gentleman’s residence, there must be more than enough rooms for me to find one which I could call my own, and where I could occasionally be alone without fear of interruption.

Almost as soon as the thought entered my head, I could visualize in my mind’s eye Adela’s faintly mocking smile that told me I was, as usual, being inordinately selfish: for a woman with small children, there was no such thing as solitude. I emptied my cup hurriedly and joined Hercules, who was patiently waiting for me outside the door. Since the storm, the weather had grown a little cooler, but there was still a lot of dust around that made us both sneeze as we set off for the Frome Gate and Bridge.

Some ten minutes later, I entered Master Overbecks’s bakery through the side door, once more leaving Hercules tied up outside, thus avoiding the throng of women milling around the front of the shop. They were, as always, being taken care of by Dick Hodge, while the baker worked in the bakehouse, attending to the batches of fresh loaves, either taking them out or putting them into the ovens.

For the second time in recent days, my meeting with John Overbecks was uncomfortable, but on this occasion, the embarrassment was all his. I had nothing to feel ashamed of.

‘I’ve come to pay for the Lammas loaves,’ I said. ‘Thank you for baking them for us.’ But I didn’t smile and my tone was cool.

‘Roger,’ he pleaded, putting down his pele while he took the money from me, ‘I had no choice but to tell Sergeant Manifold what I knew; what Lawyer Hulin had told me. The news of Mistress Ford’s death was such a terrible shock that I couldn’t think clearly. But even if I had been able to do so, I can’t see how I could have done otherwise when the sergeant confronted me. I was unprepared. “Cicely Ford is dead, murdered, and Sister Jerome tells me you might know a reason to point the finger of guilt at Roger Chapman,” he says, while I was still gathering my wits together.’ The baker looked genuinely distressed and I began to feel less animosity towards him. ‘When I told Marion what Lawyer Hulin had told me, it was in confidence. I didn’t expect her to repeat it without consulting me first.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But then, I don’t suppose Master Hulin expected me to pass it on, either. But there you are. We’re all human, I suppose.’

The hazel eyes which met mine were so full of apology that my heart softened. I gave him credit for having been fond of Cicely Ford and desirous of doing what he could to apprehend her murderer. I would probably have done the same had I stood in his shoes. I still could not bring myself to smile, but I nodded to show that I understood.

John Overbecks breathed a sigh of relief and held out a floury hand.

‘Let me congratulate you, Roger, on your good fortune, however unhappily come by. You didn’t need my help after all, you see. Fate’s stepped in and made you a householder in spite of yourself. And a householder with no strings attached. You’re a very lucky fellow. All right! Don’t fly out at me. I know you’d rather not have inherited the house in these appalling circumstances, but that’s not turned out to be your fault, thank God! Praise be, you had an alibi! Twice lucky! Let me congratulate you yet again.’ His mood sobered. ‘Does Sergeant Manifold have any idea who might have killed that poor girl?’

‘I have neither seen nor spoken to the sergeant since he left us this morning,’ I answered. ‘I
have
spoken to your sister-in-law, however. I went to pay my last respects to Mistress Ford, and Sister Jerome was sitting with the body.’

‘Ahh . . . And what did Marion have to say to you?’

I shrugged. ‘She told me what she had told Richard Manifold, about the man she had seen climbing Saint Michael’s Hill last night; that he had my height and build and that he vanished somewhere in the vicinity of Cicely’s cottage. Do you know of anyone, Master Overbecks, who might look so much like me from a distance?’

The baker regarded me with pursed lips, then shook his head.

‘You’re a distinctive size and shape, Roger. You don’t see many men as tall and as well-built as you. Except,’ he added with sudden inspiration, ‘those two strangers who were here; the two who turned out to be King’s men from London. They were even bigger than you.’

I recollected the brutish pair with a jolt of surprise. So much had happened during the past week that my encounters with them now seemed the stuff of dreams; something recalled from the dim and distant past, instead of events that had taken place only a few days previously. But they had been escorted back to London, in disgrace, by Timothy Plummer – or so, at least, everyone had been led to believe. But supposing one of them had been left behind for some reason, lying low somewhere outside the city, who would be any the wiser? Yet, even if that were so, what possible connection could such a man have with Cicely Ford? What possible connection with her murder?

‘Ha!’ John Overbecks exclaimed in satisfaction. ‘That’s given you something to think about, I can see!’

‘I must admit it has,’ I confessed. ‘No one knows for certain that both men returned to London.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’ The baker slapped me on the back, more friendly than he had been for a while, pleased that he had been able to offer a solution to a problem that might have left a tiny, lingering doubt of my innocence in anyone’s mind.

The house door into the bakery was pushed open and Jane Overbecks came in. I was shocked by the deterioration in her appearance; by the unkempt state of her hair that straggled, unbraided, across her shoulders; by the fact that she was naked above the waist except for the tattered shawl, which she had fastened so loosely that the pin had come undone and was now in danger of scratching her; by the wild expression in her eyes, which darted all around the bakery, as though she was frantically searching for something.

‘The baby!’ she muttered. ‘The baby! Where’s it gone?’

John Overbecks went to her and put his arms around her. He was a man who, for all his pleasant, friendly ways, could sometimes look and sound harsh and impatient. But with his wife, he was always tenderness itself.

‘Hush! Hush, sweetheart.’ He rocked her gently to and fro. ‘The baby’s all right. It’s upstairs somewhere. We’ll find it, don’t you fret.’

Jane shook her head violently and struggled to free herself from his restraining arms.

‘Not that baby!’ She turned to look at him with a sudden shrewdness that was almost shocking in its normality. ‘That’s only a doll. I want the real baby.’ She turned to stare at me. ‘
Your
baby! It’s your baby I want,’ she said. ‘You used to let me take him for walks, but I haven’t seen him lately. Adam!’ She nodded and gave a wild laugh as she remembered his name.