Death and the Chapman (23 page)

After a few scathing words for Martin Trollope, and some words for me which I have already related, the Duke and his lady had departed for St Martin-le-Grand, but some of his men had been left behind. It was the one condition I had daringly laid down, before telling His Grace my story, that the inn premises should be thoroughly searched, particularly the cellars. I had been hoping to discover evidence of murder and robbery, and I think the Duke had been hoping so, too, because then he could have brought charges against Martin Trollope on counts not involving his brother. But there was no evidence to find, and my accusations had brought strenuous denials from the landlord. He denied with equal vigour sending Matilda Ford after me this evening to kill me, and protested that he had been unaware either of my suspicions or my intentions. And, as I said, I found myself believing his story.

So where did that leave my quest for the truth concerning Clement Weaver? No doubt God still wished me to continue, but I was suddenly too tired to care. I felt I had done enough; and perhaps, after all, in finding the Lady Anne and restoring her to the man she loved I had fulfilled God’s purpose. Maybe Clement Weaver and Sir Richard Mallory had been merely the means to an end, and I had mistaken God’s real intention. Yes; that was it. I had achieved what I had been sent to London to do and now I could move on.

I had a sudden yearning for the countryside; for the forests and moorland, the scattered villages and hamlets, the walled towns islanded in seas of green. I wanted to hear the lapping of streams over pebbles, smell the acrid scent of distant bonfires, see the swirling morning mists. I had enjoyed London, but I had had enough of it. I was ready to move on.

‘I shall be leaving in the morning,’ I said, raising my eyes from their contemplation of the flames and smiling at Thomas Prynne. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, but after tonight I shan’t be troubling you again.’

‘No trouble, no trouble at all!‘ he exclaimed a shade too heartily, and I realized that he was probably relieved. He and Abel did too little business at the Baptist’s Head to offer free lodgings for any length of time. It was only my acquaintance with Marjorie Dyer which had made him feel obliged to take me in . . . The name of Marjorie Dyer brought me up short as I remembered her connection with Matilda Ford and the Crossed Hands inn. I felt the stirrings of unease again, as though God were reminding me that I had not accomplished all my mission. There was something I still had not discovered about that place, I was sure of it.

‘Anything wrong, lad?’ Thomas Prynne inquired, evidently noting some change in my expression.

‘No, no,’ I lied hurriedly, ‘nothing at all. And now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll go to bed. I shall sleep like the dead tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.’

Thomas nodded and got up to light my candle. ‘We shall see you in the morning, then, at breakfast, to say our farewells.’

‘Er - Yes. Yes. Good night, Master Parsons.’

‘We shan’t meet again, then,’ he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand.

‘No ... No, I don’t suppose so.’

I caught an exchange of glances between Thomas and Abel, and realized that my hesitations had revealed my wavering purpose. They had been hoping to get rid of me; now, they could sense that I was on the verge of changing my mind. Thomas sought to help me change it back again.

He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘As it’s your last night with us, you shall have the very best room. A fitting end to an eventful sojourn in London. What do you say, Abel? As Master Farmer still hasn’t turned up, let our chapman friend have his bed.’

‘By all means!‘ Abel agreed, giving me a friendly smile.

‘A man who has rendered service to the Duke of Gloucester deserves only the finest this inn can offer. Furthermore, Roger shall be treated like an honoured guest. Half a loaf of white bread and a jug of our best wine for his all-night.‘

‘Of course!‘ Thomas was beaming. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? And one of us will lend you a night-shirt. Unless your pack includes such an item?’

I shook my head ruefully. ‘When would I use it?’

‘True! True!’ Abel said, laughing. ‘Bring your candle and let me conduct you to bed. For one night, at least, you can sleep like a prince. That mattress is the best in London.’

I took this with the proverbial pinch of salt, as no doubt I was meant to, and followed Abel upstairs to the room I had noted early that morning. Abel set the candle down on top of the oak cupboard, beside the one already there in the pewter holder. The halo of light illuminated the huge four- poster bed with its tester and curtains of rubbed red velvet, and was reflected in the polished metal of the mirror. The clothes-chest was now shut and I could see that its heavy lid was intricately carved with a pattern of intertwined roses. The scent of lavender and spices, however, still lingered on the air.

As I set down my pack and stick, which I had brought up with me, Thomas came in carrying a tray bearing the promised all-night, and with a night-shirt draped over one arm. ‘Here we are, then, lad,’ he said, depositing the first on top of the cupboard and tossing the other on to the bed. ‘Sleep well. We’ll see you in the morning.’

I thanked them both, at the same time wondering how I was going to break it to them tomorrow that I had changed my mind and intended to stay a while longer in London. Perhaps I could find other lodgings, but the prospect daunted me. Besides, I wanted to be near the Crossed Hands inn. I started to undo the laces of my tunic, wondering what had become of Matilda Ford, but I was really too weary to care. I was paying the price for the excitement of the past few hours and the exertions of the day. My whole body ached and my mind felt clogged with dreams. I looked forward to undressing; to ridding myself of the clothes I had worn for so many days; to putting on the soft, white night-shirt and tumbling into bed; to consuming my all-night at leisure before finally closing my eyes.

But it was not to be. I allowed myself to drop back against the goose-feather pillows for a moment, my tunic still half unlaced, and I must straightway have fallen asleep. Almost at once, I was in the middle of a strange, wild dream. I was in Pudding Street, outside the whorehouse, and the cloaked figure was advancing on me, knife upraised, but I could neither move or speak. Susan and the other prostitutes were there behind me, but they were laughing and jeering, doing nothing to help. I heard one of them say: ‘The man’s a fool, a common chapman!‘ and another one answered: ‘What can you expect?’ My assailant was nearly upon me now, and the hood fell back from the livid face. The foxy-coloured hair and pale blue eyes were Matilda Ford’s, but while I watched, petrified, she seemed to grow and the features became those of Abel Sampson. ‘We’ve been expecting you! Expecting you!’ he whispered, his voice gradually fading away...

The scene changed abruptly, as happens in dreams. I was no longer outside Mother Bindloss’s, but sitting with Robert, Lady Mallory’s steward, in his room next to the buttery in Tuffnel Manor. ‘His passion was wine,’ Robert was saying, over and over again. ‘His passion was wine.’

And I knew that he was talking about Sir Richard Mallory. Once more, the scene dissolved, and I was lying with Bess by the banks of the Stour. I wanted to make love to her, but she wouldn’t let me. ‘Where is he?’ she kept asking. ‘Where’s Master Farmer?’

Suddenly I was wide awake, sweating profusely in the darkness. For a moment or two my thoughts were in total confusion and I had difficulty in recalling exactly where I was. Then, as consciousness returned, everything fell simply and easily into place...

What a fool I had been! What a blind, stupid ass not to have seen what, all along, was under my nose. The disappearance of Clement Weaver, Sir Richard Mallory and his man, and doubtless a dozen or so others, had nothing to do with the Crossed Hands inn nor with Martin Trollope. It was here, in the Baptist’s Head, that they had been robbed and murdered.

I pulled myself up into a sitting position, my back propped against the pillows. I was trembling with fear and excitement and, above all, the shock of discovery. Reaching for the half loaf of bread beside my bed, I tore a piece off and crammed it into my mouth. In moments of stress, I am always hungry. I glanced around me. The candle had gone out, and all the furniture of the room had assumed nocturnally gigantic proportions. It was late and everything was still. Once, an owl hooted, its desolate cry echoing weirdly over the roof-tops. Somewhere in the distance a horse snorted and stamped, one man called to another, a dog barked. Then silence drifted back, more profound than before. Wisps of smoke from the candle still hung about the room, uneasy spirits in search of a home.

I shivered violently. My mouth was dry and I had a job to swallow the bread. My hand went out for the jug of wine and the cup, then remained suspended in mid-air, hovering over the tray. I remembered the deep sleep into which I had fallen the previous evening, and realized for the first time that I might not have been drunk, but drugged. I recalled how disconcerted Thomas Prynne had been to find me up and awake in the middle of the night. He had not counted on the strength of my general constitution.

I withdrew my hand and sat up even straighter on the bed, trying to arrange my thoughts in order.

First and foremost, there had only been Thomas Prynne’s word that Clement Weaver had never arrived at the Baptist’s Head. And because Clement had last been seen outside the Crossed Hands inn, everyone, including myself, had allowed themselves to believe that his disappearance might have something to do with the latter. Whereas the truth was that he must have walked down to the Baptist’s Head to be greeted with affection by the murderous pair. He trusted them. Thomas was his father’s friend; the boyhood friend, who had grown up to be deeply envious of the other man’s success. So envious, that he had moved from Bristol to London in an attempt to make his own fortune.

Thomas had bought the Baptist’s Head; but its location and the fact that it was overshadowed by the rival inn further up the lane had meant only very small profit for a lot of hard work. I had no means of knowing when and how he had met up with Abel Sampson, but I guessed that like had called to like. They were both ambitious, greedy and unscrupulous men. Together they had devised a scheme to murder and rob their wealthiest clients. Not all of them, of course, that would have been impossible; just those travelling alone or with a single servant. Maybe they had informants in various parts of the country, like Marjorie Dyer in Bristol, whose job it was to recommend the Baptist’s Head to any such people. She must have forewarned Thomas that, on this particular occasion, Clement Weaver was carrying an unusually large sum of money.

But Marjorie sent her letters to Matilda Ford at the Crossed Hands inn. That, of course, was a precaution in case anyone ever became suspicious. Matilda Ford certainly worked at the rival inn, but the first time I had seen her, she had reminded me of someone. And that someone was Abel Sampson. I wondered how I could have been so blind as not to see it. Hadn’t I said to myself that she was nothing like Marjorie Dyer? And I had only just left Abel at the Baptist’s Head. The resemblance - the sandy hair, the height, the thinness - had been staring me in the face, yet I had been unable to recognize it. I had no means of knowing what their relationship actually was, but guessed it was probably that of brother and sister. Perhaps Abel himself had once worked at the Crossed Hands inn and that was how Thomas had met him.

I went over once again in my mind the circumstances of Clement Weaver’s disappearance. His arrival alone and on foot must have seemed like a gift from heaven to Thomas and Abel: they had only Clement to get rid of. The disposal of their victims‘ horses must always have presented a problem, but no doubt there were many shady dealers in London, and the sale of the animals had added more money to their coffers.

In the case of Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender, the horses had remained at the Crossed Hands, to be claimed and taken away later by Sir Gregory Bullivant. I could not know for certain, but I had no doubt now in my mind that Sir Richard had been lured to the Baptist’s Head after a ‘chance‘ meeting with either Thomas or Abel, during which he had been promised the finest wine he had ever tasted. Matilda would have informed the two men of Sir Richard’s presence, told them that he was a bird worth the plucking, and that, in Robert the steward’s words to me, he would ‘travel miles, brave all hazards, to taste a recommended vintage’. The maid at the Crossed Hands had told Sir Gregory Bullivant that she had seen Sir Richard and his servant apparently arguing in the inn courtyard. At that point their saddle-bags had been packed and they were ready to leave, so it was likely that Jacob Pender had been protesting against delay, but his master had overruled him. They had walked the short distance to the Baptist’s Head - and to their deaths...

Suddenly I could no longer endure the darkness and, leaning over, I fumbled for the tinder-box on the table beside me. The palms of my hands were sweating so much that I had great difficulty in coaxing a spark from it, but eventually I managed to light one of the candles. The flickering light cast distorted shadows which sent grotesque patterns leaping across the walls and ceiling. In my mind’s eye I could see the two unsuspecting men being led down the ale-room steps and into the cellar.

I lay back on the pillows, shivering. I remembered seeing Abel Sampson for the first time yesterday morning and thinking he was like Richard of Gloucester when he smiled. But then, to repeat myself, in those days I was a poor judge of character. I remembered, too, his words on seeing me. ‘Is this the man we’ve been expecting?’ And Thomas’s reply: ‘No, no! I’m sure I told you that Master Farmer would not be arriving until late this evening.’ I recalled now the emphasis he had laid on the name and realized its significance. Months ago, Marjorie Dyer must have warned them of my involvement in Alfred Weaver’s affairs; to be on the lookout for a chapman who might start asking awkward questions. I was indeed the man Abel had been expecting; although they must both have thought by then that I had changed my mind, or forgotten my commission, and was not coming.