11 - The Lammas Feast (7 page)

There were three of these; one, next door to the kitchen, contained a bed, an oaken coffer in which Jasper kept his clothes and an unemptied chamber pot, whose unsavoury contents I rather thought I would leave to the law to dispose of. (Neither Jack Gload nor Peter Littleman would turn a hair.) The other two rooms were small, very empty and very dusty. We made no exciting discovery in any one of them.

But four rooms! Four rooms for one man, while Adela, the three children and I were confined to a one-roomed cottage. I must have muttered aloud, because Richard Manifold, who was casting a last look around the kitchen, glanced at me over his shoulder.

‘Jasper rented this shop,’ he volunteered, ‘from John Overbecks the elder, and later, after the old man died, from the younger. Didn’t you know that? Of course, I keep forgetting! You’re not really a Bristol man, are you?’ He spoke with all the infuriating condescension of one born and bred in the place. ‘Old Overbecks was an astute businessman and, at various times, bought up properties all over the town. This is one of them.’

I was intrigued. ‘That explains it, then.’

‘Explains what?’

‘Why Jasper never tried any of his nasty tricks on John Overbecks. Why he never made any attempt to put a rival – and a successful rival, at that – out of business. I’ve often pondered the reason. It was so out of character for Jasper. Did he resent, do you think, being the tenant of another man?’

Richard Manifold shrugged. ‘Who’s to say what Jasper felt or didn’t feel? I had very little to do with him. He covered his tracks so well, had his bully-boys so much under his thumb, that it was impossible to link him to any of the crimes committed in this city. People were far too frightened of him to complain or point the accusing finger. He got away with murder.’

‘Until he was murdered himself,’ I muttered slowly, surveying the corpse once more. ‘He eventually overreached himself with someone. But he certainly wasn’t expecting the violent reaction he got.’

There was the sudden clatter of feet on the stairs and, a moment later, John Overbecks entered the kitchen. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Jasper’s body lying across the table, and recoiled a little.

‘Dear God in heaven, so it
is
true!’ He steadied himself with a hand on the door jamb. ‘I’ve only just heard.’ He must have seen our sceptical looks, because he went on, ‘No, truly! Dick Hodge and I have been in the bakery all morning, catching up on a late order for more bread from the priory. They’re expecting an influx of visitors, ready for the start of the fair on Saturday. So Dick and I were up at the crack of dawn and shut ourselves away until the order was completed. After that, there were our own loaves to bake, and it wasn’t until the arrival of the first hucksters that we were told the news. It took me a moment or two to take it in. Then I decided I’d better come straight over.’

‘Why?’ With this second intrusion, Richard was in no mood to be diplomatic.

John Overbecks clucked indignantly. ‘Because it’s
my
property, of course! If there’s been a fight, I want to know what sort of damage has been done.’ He stared around him and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Fortunately, none, by the look of it.’ He walked round behind the body and gave it his careful consideration, then nodded approvingly. ‘Whoever did that, did a quick, clean and efficient job. Beautiful. Just the way we used to dispose of sentries and lookouts in France. Creep up behind them and a quick thrust up under the ribs with your dagger into the heart – so!’ He demonstrated. ‘They were in heaven or the other place before they even knew you were there.’

It was obvious that John Overbecks’s response to Jasper Fairbrother’s murder was the same as that of everyone else – indifference, tempered with relief.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘as there’s no damage done, I’ll be going, Sergeant, and leave you, with Roger’s help, to get on with your investigation.’ He gave me a sly wink, so I knew that he was being deliberately provocative. ‘Have you a suspect in your eye? Rather like looking for a tree in a forest, I should imagine.’ He crossed to the door, where he paused and glanced back. ‘What about that stranger we saw with Master Fairbrother yesterday morning? You know who I mean, Roger. You and Adela were with me. He and Jasper were arguing.’

Richard turned a frowning look in my direction, but I ignored him.

‘He can’t be the murderer, John. Sergeant Manifold and I have worked out that Master Fairbrother probably wasn’t killed until around ten o’clock last night. By that time, our Breton friend had left the city. Cicely Ford and I both saw him much earlier, walking up Saint Michael’s Hill, past the boundary stone and striding out on the road towards the down.’

‘He might have returned to the city,’ the baker argued.

‘I doubt it. He was carrying his pack and cloak.’

John Overbecks shrugged. ‘That’s no proof. He might have intended to leave, but, for some reason or another, changed his mind and came back. How long before curfew was it?’

Reluctantly, I admitted that it had lacked some time to the closing of the city gates.

‘Well, there you are, then.’

Here Richard Manifold broke in angrily. ‘Will one of you tell me who it is you’re talking about? This may be vital evidence, God save the mark!’

‘Roger will tell you. I have to get back to my shop,’ the baker said, and disappeared through the open doorway and down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.

I was left to face the irate sergeant, so I told my tale as briefly as I could. Indeed, there wasn’t much to tell, although I did remember to include my third sighting of the stranger in Broad Street during the afternoon.

‘Coming out of Robin Avenel’s house, you say?’ There was an air of suppressed excitement about Richard Manifold’s question that intrigued me. Also, he had started to bite his nails, a sure sign, in him, of perturbation. ‘Well, well! Who’d have guessed it?’

But when I asked him to speak more plainly, he clammed up and said it was nothing: he had merely been thinking aloud.

‘You’re certain that this man was a Breton?’ he asked, as we descended the stairs together. ‘Is the ship he arrived on still moored in Saint Nicholas Backs?’

‘In answer to your first question, I’m almost certain. As for the ship, I don’t know.’

A little crowd of people had once again gathered outside the bakery, but Richard dispersed them with a few curt words and, using the key he had found hanging on a nail on the kitchen wall, locked the street door behind us.

‘Walk down to Saint Nicholas Backs with me,’ he invited, ‘and see if you can spot this Breton merchantman.’

But it had gone, sailing down the Avon on the morning tide, no doubt, and in its berth was a Portuguese ship, perfuming the air with a cargo of exotic spices.

Richard swore, long and satisfyingly, before turning on me. ‘I wish you’d told me all this yesterday,’ he said savagely.

I assumed a wounded expression. ‘How did I know it was of any importance? In fact, I still don’t know that. The man can’t be the murderer if we’re right about the time of death . . .’

‘I’m willing to wager my last groat that he’s the killer,’ Richard interrupted with such ill-founded assurance that it took my breath away. Rendered speechless, all I could muster was a sort of outraged croak, which my companion mistook for encouragement to continue with his crack-brained theory. ‘Overbecks is right! After you and Mistress Ford saw him on Saint Michael’s Hill, the stranger changed his mind and returned to the city before the gates were closed for the night.’

‘Why?’ I managed. ‘For what reason?’

‘Unfinished business with Jasper Fairbrother. John Overbecks said that the two men were arguing. You agreed. Whatever the cause of that disagreement, our Breton friend was dissatisfied with the outcome and returned to settle the matter.’

‘By murdering Jasper?’ Even as I spoke, I recalled how the stranger had faltered at the sight of the hanged man on the gibbet. Had murder and its possible consequences indeed been on his mind?

‘Oh, he may not have
intended
to kill Jasper,’ Richard conceded. ‘But one thing might have led to another and, eventually, to murder.’ Richard quickened his step. ‘The city must be searched for this man, although I very much doubt that he’ll still be here. He probably left at first light. The surrounding countryside must be scoured, as well. I’ll organize a posse. We’ll catch him, and when we do, you’ll be needed to identify him, Roger, so don’t set off on your travels. That’s an order, mind. And now I must report to the sheriff.’ He moved ahead of me, lengthening his stride, but paused to call over his shoulder, ‘Tell Adela that I shall be delighted to accept her kind invitation to supper tonight.’

He pressed on and disappeared into the Councillors’ Hall, opposite All Saints’ Church.

I was left standing at the top of High Street. After a moment or two lost in thought, I began walking home, confident in Adela’s ability to have my dinner on the table in spite of the late start to her day. Besides, I told myself, she would be agog to hear all my news. But I walked slowly, not just to give her more time, but also to try to clear my mind.

Richard Manifold was neither a stupid nor an impulsive man. He had more than his fair share of intelligence and common sense, loath though I was to admit it. Why, therefore, without proof and on the flimsiest of evidence, had he seized so adamantly on the notion that the Breton was the murderer? The only guess I could hazard was that he knew something about this man that I didn’t, had heard something about him that I hadn’t, and had already been looking for an excuse to raise the hue and cry in order to arrest him. What better or more urgent than a charge of murder?

But why? Well, if the stranger were indeed a Breton, and I felt convinced that he was, could he be in the employ of Brittany’s most notorious exile, troublemaker and thorn in the government’s side, Henry Tudor? Was he one of Henry’s agents, visiting England to contact the earl’s sympathizers? That might explain Richard Manifold’s remark about Robin Avenel, ‘Well, well! Who’d have guessed it?’ The sheriff could well have received a warning from King Edward’s spymaster general that such a man was due to pay a visit to this country, travelling from town to town in order to discover what secret sympathy there was for the Lancastrian cause. Perhaps that was why the man had flinched from the felon’s corpse on Saint Michael’s Hill, because he knew how much more horrifying was the death for traitors and spies.

I was still mulling the matter over when I reached the cottage and went inside, ready for my dinner.

I
had barely set foot inside the door before my legs were assaulted by a small, black and white dog who yapped around my ankles, trying to nip them with a set of extremely sharp teeth. Only my stout leather boots saved me from injury. After him, in full cry, came Nicholas and Elizabeth, exhorting me, at the tops of their voices, to stop the angry and terrified animal from escaping into the street. As I bent and scooped the poor beast into my arms, it relieved itself in a warm stream down the front of my jerkin. My two young ingrates doubled up with screams of laughter.

Adela, who was busy at the table, setting out bowls and spoons, turned a flushed face – for the cottage was very warm – to find out what was happening. Having taken in the situation, she hurried forward to remove the dog from my grasp, heroically trying to suppress her own merriment. She placed the animal gently on the floor, dared the children to harass it further and went to fetch a pannikin of water and a cloth with which to sponge me down.

‘Where did that come from?’ I demanded furiously, refusing to be mollified by the caresses of the children, who were, by this time, fondling any part of my anatomy they could reach, in case I had a pocketful of sweetmeats that I might now decline to dispense.

‘Jane Overbecks dropped by about half an hour ago. She left the dog for the children to play with.’ Adela sat back on her heels, regarding her handiwork. ‘There, I think that’ll do. The jerkin probably won’t stain; at least, I hope not. But it might smell for a while. If other dogs start following you home, you’ll know the reason why.’

‘Very funny,’ I snarled. ‘Oh, I can see it’s highly amusing for the rest of you.’ The children had begun giggling again and my wife was biting her lip. I changed the subject. ‘What was Jane Overbecks doing here? I’ve always assumed she was afraid of people.’

Adela stood up. ‘Oh, I think she is. But Adam was the attraction. She adores babies.’

I cast an agitated glance around the cottage in search of my son.

‘Where is Adam?’ I asked uneasily.

Adela kissed my cheek. ‘Jane’s taken him for a little walk in his cart . . . There’s no need to look like that, Roger. I’m sure he’s perfectly safe.’

‘I’m not,’ I answered tautly. ‘There’s something strange about that woman. Those simple-minded people are often extremely cunning, especially at getting their own way. Adela, my love, how could you have let her . . .?’

The sentence remained unfinished as the door opened and Jane Overbecks appeared, trundling a contentedly sleeping Adam behind her. Adela hurried forward, breathing a sigh of relief. My words had worried her, I could tell; unnecessarily this time, as it turned out, but I had every intention of discouraging her from entrusting our son to the baker’s wife in future.

At the unexpected sight of me towering above her, probably looking less than pleased, Jane dropped the handle of the cart, seized hold of the dog and backed hastily out of the cottage as if I were Old Nick himself. Nicholas and Elizabeth would have gone whooping after her, to say goodbye to the animal and enquire, no doubt, when she would bring him again, but I intercepted them, ordering them to the dinner table in a voice they both knew meant trouble if they disobeyed.

‘You’re being very severe all at once,’ Adela commented, frowning. She ladled boiled bacon and peas on to our plates from the pot over the fire. ‘Has this business of Jasper Fairbrother upset you?’

‘All murder is upsetting,’ I answered sententiously.

‘You live in a cottage where one took place,’ she retorted. ‘That never seems to bother you.’