Death and the Chapman (14 page)

This time his reaction was far more rewarding. ‘Get away!’ he commanded furiously; and I knew then that Martin Trollope’s had been the voice which had shouted ‘Get back!‘ that morning.

‘God be with you,’ I answered magnanimously and turned, well satisfied, into Thames Street.

As I pushed my way along that crowded thoroughfare, however, I was conscious that something was nagging at the corners of my mind; some little fact which was troubling me and making me uneasy. But the more I tried to pin it down, the more elusive it became, dodging in and out of other thoughts which obscured it. By the time I had been sworn at by three passers-by for not looking where I was going, I knew I should have to let it go, at least for now, and trust that the puzzle would resolve itself presently.

And I had work to do. I set out resolutely for the Cheap.

West Cheap, or Cheapside, is also known simply as The Street, because it’s so famous. I don’t suppose there’s a soul in the whole of England, then as now, who hasn’t heard of it. It’s not what it was when I was young, but as I’ve remarked before, that goes without saying. My children and grandchildren will feel the same when they’re my age. But when I first saw it, in that October of 1471, I thought it must be the most magical place in the whole wide world.

Cheap, of course, comes from the old Saxon word ‘chipping’, meaning a market: there was nothing cheap, in its current usage, about The Street. There were shops stuffed with silks and carpets, tapestries brought from Arras, gold and silver cups and plates, the most magnificent jewellery. My eyes were dazzled and I felt like a child in fairyland, in spite of the fact that it is heresy to believe in the little people. (But then, for someone who still half acknowledges the existence of Robin Goodfellow and Hodekin and the terrible Green Man, how can I not believe in the world of fairies?) A conduit - the Great Conduit, I heard it called - brought fresh spring water all the way from Paddington, still smelling of herbs from the village meadows. There were grocers’ and apothecaries’ shops; and I saw grey Bristol soap being sold at a penny the pound, less than half the price of the hard white Castilian. The ordinary black liquid soap was only a halfpenny.

There was the Standard, originally made of wood, now being rebuilt in stone, where Lord Say had been murdered by the followers of Jack Cade twenty-one years previously; the church of St Mary-le-Bow with its famous bell, so called because it was raised on arches; the great cross erected by King Edward the first, presently being rebuilt at a cost of well over a thousand pounds through the generosity of the capital’s citizens. There was the Mercers’ Hall situated along the north side, and the beautifully painted and decorated houses of the merchants. There was ... But I could go on boring you for ever with the wonders of that part of London. All I can say is that since that day, I have met many people, including foreigners, who speak with awe of Cheapside, its wares and its treasures.

I thought I should be unable to sell much there, and was thinking of moving on, when I had my first customer. After that, it was easy. I had never before sold as much in a couple of hours as I did that afternoon. I realized after a while that people came to the Cheap to buy and were therefore in a spending mood. They didn’t much care who they bought from, provided they could afford what was on offer. And my wares were undoubtedly cheaper than those on display in the shops. I attracted the poorer citizens by the dozens.

Mind you, I don’t say that my appearance didn’t have something to do with it. A lot of my customers were women; and if that sounds boastful, I’m sorry, but it happens to be the truth. I’ve always believed in using the gifts God gave you, and trading on my good looks to gain an advantage over my competitors never worried me or made me feel ashamed. I flirted with the younger women and flattered the older ones - another proof, if you need any more, that I was unsuited for a life of self-abnegation.

When the church bells began tolling for Vespers, I packed my remaining wares into my pack and prepared to walk back to Crooked Lane, thinking hungrily of my supper. The fragrance of Thomas Prynne’s delicious stew lingered in my nostrils, making my mouth water in anticipation, and I set off for the Baptist’s Head with a swinging stride and a light heart, remembering the good business I had done that afternoon. It was still chilly, and remnants of the morning’s frost hung about the streets like grimy cobwebs. But storm clouds were gathering. It would not be so cold that night and might even rain.

London continued to bewilder me, and although I knew I must be moving in the right direction, I nevertheless managed to lose my way. I suddenly found myself facing a huge and forbidding stone building, which seemed to my inexperienced eyes to be a fortress of some description. There were three massive arched gates fronting on to the street, and two of them were locked. At the third, carts were drawn up, loading or unloading goods, and I realized suddenly that this must be the Steelyard, home of those Hanseatic merchants who were the descendants of German traders established by the Saxon kings in Dowgate. I knew of their reputation from Marjorie Dyer, who had told me all about them that evening in Bristol; how the Easterlings lived a celibate life, with no women allowed inside the Steelyard walls; how they had their own two Aldermen to represent them in the city government; how they stayed aloof from other Londoners; how they held a monopoly of the Baltic trade. In the event of an attack upon the capital, they were responsible for the defence of Bishopsgate, and consequently kept, or so the story went, a suit of armour in every room.

It was while I was staring - gawking, my mother would have called it - at this imposing edifice, like a true rustic unused to such sights, that I found my eyes focused on one of the carters, who, with an assistant, was unloading great bales of cloth. There was something familiar about the man’s face, but I could not immediately recall where I had seen him before. Then, as though becoming aware of my scrutiny, he turned his head in my direction, and I recognized him as the carter employed by Alderman Weaver for the transport of his cloth to London. I went over, waiting patiently by the horse’s head until he should be free to speak.

This took some while as there were at least half a dozen bales of the unbleached cloth to be unloaded; and when that task was finally accomplished, the man followed the Germans into the Steelyard and was gone for some time. When he emerged at last, he was ripe for someone to complain to.

‘Every single bloody bale weighed and examined,’ he grumbled. ‘The Easterlings, they don’t trust no one.’

‘They pay well, though,’ I said, remembering my conversation with Marjorie Dyer on Marsh Street quay.

The carter sniffed. ‘Don’t make no difference to me, son. I don’t see none of it. They pay my employer, or his bailiff, when ‘e comes up to London. And I get paid last of all.’

‘I’m sure Alderman Weaver doesn’t keep you waiting any longer than he has to.’

The man looked at me sharply. ‘What do you know of the Alderman?’ he asked. He cocked his head on one side, his eyes bright with curiosity. ‘I’ve seen you some place before. Are you from Bristol?’

‘I’ve been there,’ I admitted. ‘I was born in Wells.’ He nodded, as much as to say that my accent gave me away.

‘And you’re right, we have met before, if only briefly. I was with Marjorie Dyer one morning last spring when she spoke to you. The wharf at the end of Marsh Street.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, but it was obvious that although he remembered my face, he had no recollection of the occasion.

‘She gave you a letter to deliver to her cousin,’ I reminded him, but the carter merely shrugged.

‘She often does that. So do a lot of other people. You’d be surprised what I get entrusted with. Good job I’m honest.’

I agreed. ‘There’s been no news, I suppose, since then, of Clement Weaver?’

He stared at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses and quietened his restless horse.

‘No! And never will be!’ he answered scornfully. ‘He’s dead and gone, and it’s only the Alderman, poor sod, who won’t accept it.‘ He eyed me shrewdly. ‘Told you all about it, did she? Marjorie Dyer.‘ When I made no reply, he went on: ‘She’d like the matter cleared up, I dare say, just to get back the Alderman’s attention. Oh yes!‘ He winked broadly. ‘She has hopes in that direction, does Marjorie. The second Mistress Weaver, that’s what she wants to be. She always was ambitious. Never took kindly to being the poor relation, waitin’ on the rest of ’em. And now the daughter’s married and gone to live in Burnett, it’s possible Marjorie might have brought the Alderman up to scratch by this time, if he’d been able to think about anyone else except his precious Clement.’

I wasn’t altogether surprised by this revelation, confirming as it did what I already knew about the relationship between the Alderman and his house-keeper. So Alison had married the foppish William Burnett and gone to live with him in his home village, had she? That, too, was unsurprising, even if it were to be regretted. A high- spirited girl like that deserved someone better.

The carter mounted the box and took the reins between his hands. He still had deliveries to make and plainly wanted to be finished by nightfall. I stood away from the horse’s head to let him go, but he hesitated a moment longer. ’Whereabouts in the city are you lodging?‘ he asked me.

‘The Baptist’s Head in Crooked Lane.’ I interpreted his look as one of astonishment. He had not expected me to be staying at an inn, but rather at a religious hostelry, where accommodation was free and the diet of black bread, salt bacon or fish, and water. He also looked resentful, and I hastened to reassure him that I was not that much richer than he. ‘I traded on my brief acquaintance with Marjorie Dyer and the Alderman, I’m afraid. Master Prynne has most kindly agreed that I can sleep in the kitchen.’ I thought it prudent to make no mention of the bed I had been offered.

The carter nodded, accepting my explanation. Indeed, he even seemed pleased by it. He dropped the reins and fumbled in the leather pouch fastened to his belt.

‘I remember Thomas Prynne,’ he said. ‘Landlord of the Running Man in Bristol before he came to London to make his fortune. Wanted to do as well as his old friend, Alderman Weaver, if you ask me. A bit of envy, I should guess, although that’s not a bad thing if you want to get on in this world. Myself, I’m content to be what I am and follow the calling God gave me. My wife, she says that’s just an excuse for laziness, but I’ve learned to ignore her nagging. In my experience, it’s the only way to get the better of women. You’ve just got to pretend they’re not there.’

I laughed, remembering my mother. ‘They won’t stay ignored, that’s the trouble.’

He seemed, at last, to have found what he was looking for and triumphantly produced a folded paper from his pouch. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to me. ‘What a piece of luck you’re going to Crooked Lane. It’ll save me an extra journey. This letter’s from Marjorie Dyer to her cousin, Matilda Ford, who’s cook at the Crossed Hands inn. P’raps you’d be kind enough to deliver it for me.‘ As I took it from him, he gathered up the reins again and thanked me. ‘God be with you,’ he said, giving his horse the office to start.

I stared stupidly after him as he vanished up the street, the slow clop of the animal’s hooves dwindling into the distance.

My mind was reeling. Marjorie Dyer had a cousin who was cook at the Crossed Hands inn! I just stood there blindly in the middle of the street, trying to make sense of this information.

Marjorie was also distantly related to Alderman Weaver, but whether through her mother or her father I had no idea. Whichever it was, this Matilda Ford was a cousin on the other side of her family; an obvious enough deduction, as the Alderman had plainly known of no connection with the Crossed Hands inn which he might have exploited at the time of his son’s disappearance. And Marjorie had not enlightened him. Why not? There was only one conclusion to draw, however reluctant I might be to do so. Marjorie Dyer was in league with the robbers.

No, no! The idea was preposterous! But why was it? What, after all, did I know about her, except what she herself had told me? And I had been a witness to the way Alison treated her, half-friend, half-servant; the very attitude to stoke the fires of Marjorie’s resentment. Furthermore, if she really had plans to become the second Mistress Weaver, Clement’s removal would be to her advantage. With him gone and Alison provided for by marriage to a wealthy husband, why should the Alderman not make a will leaving everything to Marjorie? Things began to make sense.

Another thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. I had seen for myself that Marjorie slept in the Alderman’s bed, so what more likely than that he confided in her from time to time? He had probably told her that Clement would be carrying a large sum of money on that particular visit to London, so all she had to do was notify her cousin in advance, sending a letter by the carter, and afterwards claim to be ignorant of the fact...

And yet... And yet... There were still pieces of the puzzle which did not fit. Marjorie could not possibly have foreseen the circumstances which would have deposited Clement outside the Crossed Hands inn, alone, on a dark and stormy evening. By rights, he should have parted from his sister at Paddington village and ridden on to the Baptist’s Head with Ned Stoner. My brain felt addled, but one fact stood out clearly, and I glanced down at the letter I was holding. At least, I now had a reason for entering the Crossed Hands inn, which not even Martin Trollope himself could quarrel with.

A hand descended heavily on my shoulder and a guttural voice spoke angrily in my ear.

‘Vy don’t you move? You are obstructing the vaggons. ‘

I turned to find one of the Easterlings glaring at me, and I also became aware that several of the carters were shouting abuse. I was blocking the traffic. I mumbled hasty apologies and made my way back to Thames Street, resolving on no more short cuts. I was not yet familiar enough with the London streets to attempt them, so I kept straight on until I came to the corner of Crooked Lane and the Crossed Hands inn. My eyes raised themselves instinctively to that window to the right of the courtyard entrance, but it was firmly closed and there was no sign of life behind it. No shadow, however faint, was silhouetted against the oiled parchment. Silence reigned.