Death and the Chapman (17 page)

‘Are you feeling better this morning?’

‘Well enough to do more than justice to your breakfast,’ I answered. ‘I’m just going to wash in the yard. By the way, did you and Abel discover anything after I’d gone back to bed?’ In reply to his questioning glance I went on: ‘I heard you talking under my window. I couldn’t really hear what you were saying, only a few words, but I gathered you were looking around.’

Thomas speared a slice of bacon with his knife and deftly turned it over. The fat spluttered and sizzled in the pan. ‘No, nothing,’ he said, ‘but I can explain the unlocked door. Our other guest, Master Parsons, had earlier had the same call of nature as yourself, and had carelessly forgotten to bolt it after him. He confessed as much when I took him his mazer of ale at first light this morning.’

‘And the other horse?’ I queried, beginning to feel remarkably foolish.

‘A figment of your imagination, I’m afraid. There was only Master Parson’s Jessamy in the stable.’ Thomas’s smile deepened. ‘It’s as I said. Wine fumes can play strange tricks.’

Abel Sampson came into the kitchen, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. ‘God’s Teeth, I’m tired. I always am when my rest’s disturbed.’

I felt guilty and edged towards the door. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I said, ‘when I’ve washed.’

It was quiet in the courtyard, except for an occasional flurry of wind and the steady patter of the rain on the cobbles. Since childhood, I have always loved the early morning, the sense of calm before the hurrying hours gather themselves together into the urgency of midday, slide towards the boredom of late afternoon, then surge, rejuvenated, into the bustle of evening. It’s a time for quiet and reflection, with a whole new day stretching ahead of me; an undiscovered territory; a promise as yet unfulfilled. I raised a bucket of ice-cold water from the well and bathed my face and hands. No doubt Master Parsons was wallowing in a hot tub in front of the fire in his bedchamber, but then, he was paying for his room. I returned to the kitchen and my breakfast.

While I swallowed my oatmeal and bacon, I discussed the night’s events - or non-events, as they had turned out to be - with Thomas and Abel.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘to have disturbed you for no reason.’

‘No harm done,’ Thomas answered thickly, through a mouthful of bread and honey. ‘And if the yard door had been left open all night, we could have been robbed. It wouldn’t have taken a good thief long to discover the trapdoor and stairs to the cellar.’ He swallowed his food and asked: ‘What are your plans? Do you intend returning here again this evening?’

I nodded. ‘I’m stopping in London for a while yet. I haven’t begun to get to the bottom of Clement Weaver’s disappearance.’

I saw the two men exchange glances before Abel said: ‘There isn’t any mystery, you know, except for what’s in the Alderman’s imagination.’

I accepted another slice of bacon and set about it heartily. ‘What about Sir Richard Mallory?’ I asked him.

Abel shrugged. ‘This is an evil city. We hear of robberies and murders every day of our lives, don’t we, Thomas?’

The landlord raised his eyebrows in agreement. ‘And in the late unsettled times, things have naturally been worse. To my way of thinking, both Clement and this Sir Richard were set upon and killed, and their bodies disposed of in the river. I’m sorry if I sound hard, because Alfred Weaver is a friend of mine and I’ve known both the children since they were little. I was as upset as anyone by Clement’s disappearance and the distress that it caused his family. But I don’t allow sentiment to cloud my common sense. I don’t believe, as his father does, that he might still be alive somewhere, or as you seem to do, that his death has something to do with Martin Trollope and the Crossed Hands inn. It was dark and stormy, black as the grave, the night he was due here and never arrived. The sort of night when every criminal in the city is up and about his evil business. I wasn’t worried when Clement didn’t show up. I thought he must have changed his mind and gone to his uncle’s instead, along with young Alison. It wasn’t until Ned Stoner rode in just after curfew that I realized that anything was wrong.’

‘What did you do?’ I asked him.

Thomas shrugged and looked at Abel, who obligingly continued for him.

‘We - all three of us - set out to search for him, of course. But there was nothing much we could do that night. It was too dark and wet, as Tom’s already mentioned. As soon as it was daylight, we searched again and alerted the Watch. Ned Stoner rode out to Farringdon Ward to discover if by some chance Master Weaver was there, but none of us had much hope of the outcome. Neither Tom nor I had any doubts by that time that the boy was dead, especially when we learned what sum of money he had had about him.’

‘That was much later, of course, ‘ Thomas said, beginning to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘ After the Alderman’s arrival. And now, we all have work to do, so let’s get on and do it.’ He paused beside my stool and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave it, lad, that’s my advice. Don’t waste your time hanging around in London. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for Roger Chapman’s wares. However hard it may sound, Clement Weaver and Richard Mallory are dead. Forget them.’

But I had no intention of forgetting either Clement Weaver or Sir Richard Mallory. I did not say so to Thomas Prynne, however. There was something in both his and his partner‘s manner which indicated clearly that they did not wish to be troubled with the matter. And why should they? I asked myself, as I left the kitchen and crossed the passage to the ale-room in order to collect my pack and stick. They were convinced, as I had been earlier, that the two men had been set upon by thieves, robbed and murdered and their bodies disposed of in the river. They were busy people, and had no time for less credible theories. Furthermore, I had not told them of Marjorie Dyer’s duplicity. But, then again, was it duplicity? It was not a crime for her to have a cousin who worked at the Crossed Hands inn. It was simply that she had apparently not mentioned the fact to the Alderman...

Gilbert Parsons was in the ale-room, eating his breakfast, his lean, sad face wearing the same abstracted expression. He turned his soulful, watery blue eyes towards me and said in a hollow voice: ‘Nuncupative wills are the Devil’s handiwork, and lawyers the Devil’s instruments. Never trust them, and never pin your faith in litigation.’

‘I don’t intend to do so,’ I answered cheerfully, then paused, frowning. ‘You haven’t seen my pack and stick here anywhere, have you?’

It was Thomas who answered my question, as he came bustling along the passage to see if his guest wanted more ale.

‘They’re in your chamber. We took them up, out of our way, after we’d carried you to bed last night.’ He gave his deep throaty chuckle. ‘You mean you didn’t notice them? You must still have some of that wine clogging your brain, my lad!’

I thanked him, looking suitably sheepish, and mounted the stairs once again. The doors of all the bedchambers now stood open, revealing the interiors of the rooms. My natural curiosity was immediately aroused and I looked inside the other two, noting appreciatively the difference in furnishing. The largest of the three chambers, the one which should have been occupied by Master Farmer from Northampton, contained a huge four-poster bed, hung with a tester and curtains of rubbed, but nonetheless good, red velvet. Beside it was a small oak cupboard, on top of which still reposed a jug of ale and a loaf of bread: the ‘all-night’ , placed there the previous evening for the guest who had failed to arrive. In addition, there was a wax candle in a pewter holder, and a tinder-box. A fine oak chest was ranged against one wall and had been opened in readiness to accommodate the traveller’s clothes and perfumed with lavender and spices. A mirror of polished metal hung above it, and, in the farthest corner from the bed, stood a night-commode. The rushes scattered on the floor were redolent with the scent of dried flowers. A pile of logs lay ready to be lit on the hearth. A room, indeed, for the privileged guest.

The chamber next to it was Master Parson’s. A smaller bed with tester and curtains of unbleached linen was still unmade, the sheets crumpled and tumbled, and a deep hollow down the centre of the goose-feather mattress. The candle beside the bed was only of tallow, and the clothes-chest, like the commode, was made of elm wood. The rushes on the floor had lost their perfume and were plainly two or three days old. Which brought me to my own room, with nothing but a truckle bed and the battered oak chest, one of its hinges broken and the other missing. Smiling ruefully, I looked about me for my pack and stick.

They had been placed in a corner of the room which was always in shadow, and explained why I had previously overlooked them. I was relieved to know that I was not still suffering from the effects of last night’s wine. I humped the one on to my back and grasped the other, only to find myself unexpectedly wishing that the stout ash plant was a slender willow wand, that magical staff which protects travellers from harm. I shook my head vigorously to clear it of such nonsensical thoughts. What danger could I possibly be in?

Downstairs, Gilbert Parsons was getting ready to set out for the law courts, while Abel was busy removing dirty dishes from the table. Thomas was nowhere to be seen, but the trapdoor to the cellar had been heaved back against the floor, revealing a flight of worn stone steps. I nodded at Abel and handed him the money for last night’s supper. ‘I’ll be back again this evening,’ I said.

He grunted. ‘You may have to sleep in the kitchen if we’ve managed to rent out your room.’ He obviously deplored Thomas’s open-handedness.

‘Of course!‘ I smiled disarmingly. ‘Master Prynne has already made that plain.’

Then, whistling, I turned and walked out into the street.

At the top of the lane I paused, staring into the courtyard of the Crossed Hands inn. I wondered if I could chance my luck and get inside, without encountering Martin Trollope. But just at that moment he appeared on the balcony, shouting down to one of the ostlers who was leading a horse out of the stables. I badly wanted to speak to Matilda Ford again, but decided that the time was not propitious.

I had decided over breakfast, that this morning I would sell my wares in the Farringdon Ward, going from house to house, knocking on doors. That way, I hoped to locate the Alderman’s brother, John Weaver, and learn anything he could tell me. Consequently, I made my way along Cheapside and out through the New Gate to the noisy, stinking cattlemarket of Smithfield, where, on great occasions, tournaments and jousting were held. Beyond, lay St Bartholomew’s Priory, famous for its annual fair, the numerous Inns of Chancery and the long string of shops and houses strung out along the River Fleet.

It was more than half way through the morning before, quite by chance, I knocked on John Weaver’s door. As I put the question I had posed at every house so far - ‘Can you tell me where John Weaver of Bristol lives?--’ the sallowfaced girl who had appeared in the doorway asked pertly: ‘And why would that be any concern of yours?’

‘I have a message,’ I answered, ‘from his brother, the Alderman.’ And when she still hesitated, I added: ‘Of Broad Street, in Bristol.’

‘Wait here,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll fetch Dame Alice.’ Dame Alice was a stout, pleasant-faced woman, who wheezed distressingly whenever she was flustered, as she appeared to be now. Her faded blue eyes were wide with suspicion, wisps of hair escaping from beneath her white linen cap.

‘Are you the chapman?‘ she asked unnecessarily, eyeing my pack. ‘My daughter-in-law says you have a message for my husband.’

‘Is he at home?’ I inquired politely.

She shook her head. ‘He’s over at Portsoken with George and Edmund.’ These, presumably, were the two sons whom Alison had mentioned. ‘The weavers need constant supervision, you know. You can’t just leave them to their own devices. A lazy, idling, good-for-nothing set of people.’ She spoke without rancour, simply endorsing her menfolk’s opinions, as was seemly in a woman. ‘He won’t be home until just before curfew, but you can go over there and find him, if you like.’

I had no desire to leave the lucrative market of Farringdon Without before I had knocked on as many doors as possible. Already, my pack was greatly depleted: I should need another visit to Galley Wharf tomorrow morning.

‘Perhaps I could leave the message with you?‘ I hazarded. ‘It’s to do with your nephew’s disappearance.’

‘Clement? Oh dear, oh dear! That poor boy! Maybe... Maybe you’d better come in.’

She led me through to the garden at the back of the house, which ran down to the river. The rain had cleared by now, giving way to hazy sunshine and a sky which stretched milk-white above the tree-tops, threaded with faint ribbons of gold. Mistress Weaver and her daughter- in-law, whom she addressed as Bridget, had been picking herbs from the little herb-garden in the shade of one wall. Cumin, fennel and others were heaped in a shallow basket, ready to be dried and stored for the winter. Mistress Weaver folded her hands together nervously over her apron.

‘What... what did my brother-in-law have to say about poor Clement?’

I told her as quickly as I could about my meeting with Marjorie Dyer and my talk with the Alderman, leaving out my subsequent adventures. When I had finished, it was Bridget Weaver who spoke first. Her manner had lost its initial hostility.

‘Poor Uncle Alfred,’ she said quietly. ‘He can’t accept what’s happened. But there’s nothing more we can tell you than you seem to know already. Alison, her maid and the four men - our two, Rob Short and Ned Stoner - arrived here late in the afternoon, not long before curfew. But as soon as Ned had seen Alison safely inside the house, he rode back again to the Baptist’s Head. He was only just in time as it was, before the gates were closed for the night. It wasn’t until next morning that we knew Clement was missing.’

Her mother-in-law nodded. ‘My husband and sons set out for the city immediately and spent the next few days searching every place they could think of where Clement might have gone of his own free will. Not that they, or any of us, had much hope of finding him. We sent one of our men post-haste to Bristol and the Alderman was here within a week, but by then, we knew the worst.’ Mistress Weaver sighed. ‘I realize that it’s difficult for Alfred to accept the truth, particularly without a body to convince him. But, believe me, he’s wasting your time, as well as raising his own hopes falsely. My husband and sons would tell you exactly the same if they were here.’