Death and the Chapman (25 page)

I found my tongue. ‘You lying, murdering, robbing hypocrite!‘ I shouted at him, raising my stick and dashing the candle from his hand.

Thomas swore furiously as the flame burnt his leg in its fall and extinguished itself on the flagstones. Then all three were upon me, trying to grapple me to the floor. In the end, they succeeded, being three to one, but not before I had done considerable damage with my cudgel. By the time they had manhandled me into the ale-room and Thomas had produced a tinder-box from his pocket to relight the candle, Abel was bleeding copiously from his nose and had a fast-swelling eye, Matilda had an evil-looking weal across one cheek and Thomas himself was limping painfully. All three regarded me with venomous hatred.

‘You know,’ Abel grunted softly, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand, ‘I shall positively enjoy this night’s work.’

Matilda had produced a coil of tough hempen rope from somewhere and they proceeded to bind my arms and legs. I struggled wildly, although I knew I was beaten before they began. Then Thomas took my head and Abel my feet and carried me, like a fowl trussed ready for the oven, towards the cellar steps. Matilda went ahead of them, holding up the candle. All was suddenly very quiet. Even Gilbert Parsons had stopped snoring. I opened my mouth and yelled.

Thomas chuckled grimly. ‘Shout all you want, ‘ he said, ‘no one will hear you. Master Parsons is dead to the world. And very few people come this way after curfew.’

I knew he was right. And if, by some remote chance, anyone did hear my call for help, they were unlikely to venture into the inn on my behalf. Londoners minded their own business after dark, and were undoubtedly wise to do so.

As I was bundled down the cellar steps, my head knocked against the wall and I was partially stunned for a moment or two. By the time I fully recovered my senses, I had been dropped on the floor and Thomas was lighting a second candle. I saw the cellar was much bigger than I had expected, and, by my calculations, ran not only beneath the house itself, but also almost to the edge of the wharf which skirted it on one side. The walls were lined with wine-racks supporting a great many bottles, and the stone floor was covered patchily with straw. Noises came to my ears; a slight scuffling sound which I knew must be rats, and the faint lapping of water, which confirmed my guess that we must be very close to the Thames.

I turned my head to observe my captors. Abel had picked up a thick crowbar, and my blood ran cold. Then I noticed that Thomas had one also, and my heart almost stopped. They were going to club me to death! But they went over to the cellar wall which, by my reckoning, was nearest to the river, inserted the bars on either side of one of the massive stone slabs of which the walls were built, and levered it from its position. When it finally stood sufficiently proud, they laid down the bars and, straining and sweating, lifted it clear, depositing it finally on the floor. A dark, gaping hole was left in the wall, easily large enough to take a man’s body, and I had no doubt that this was the way they disposed of their hapless victims. There must be an underground chute leading straight down into the water; the drain or conduit which had given Crooked Lane its original name.

In spite of my bonds, I managed to wriggle into a sitting position, but immediately Marjorie Ford was behind me, her strong hands pressing me down.

‘Leave him, Matty!’ Thomas Prynne said, turning his head to see what was happening. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t watch.’ He laughed. ‘He isn’t going to tell anyone. Right, lad!’ His eyes swivelled until they were focused directly on my face. ‘You ‘d better start saying your prayers.’

‘Wait!‘ I said, playing for time. God alone knew what good I thought it would do me, but the will to survive is man’s strongest instinct, and I was no exception. I wanted to postpone the moment of my inevitable death as long as I possibly could. In answer to Thomas’s look of inquiry, I went on: ‘If you’re going to kill me, at least satisfy my curiosity first. It can’t harm you now to tell me the truth.’ ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Matilda begged sharply, speaking for the first time since she had appeared on the scene, upstairs in the passageway. ‘Get rid of him quickly.’ Abel nodded, his pale eyes gleaming. ‘Matty’s right. Let’s get on with it.’

But Thomas was in the mood to humour me. I realized suddenly that he was a vain man, who was normally balked of talking about himself and his murderous achievements.

‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t satisfy his curiosity if he wishes. In any case, it shouldn’t take long. I imagine he knows most of what we can tell him already. You’re a bright young man,’ he added, addressing me directly. ‘When and why did you finally tumble to the truth?’ ‘When I went up to bed this evening. As to why, let’s just say that Abel made one or two slips that ought to have put me on your track much earlier, if I hadn’t been so dull-witted. And Mistress Ford here reminded me of someone the first time I met her. Again, it wasn’t until tonight that I realized she looks like Abel.’

Thomas smiled. ‘Observant of you. They’re brother and sister. But I can see by your face that you’d already worked that out. Abel also used to be an ostler at the Crossed Hands inn. That’s how we met, when I came to buy this place. I lured him away from Martin Trollope to work for me, and he proved to be worth his weight in gold. He knew the stories about the old smugglers’ conduit running down to the wharfside, and eventually, after a lot of searching, we found it. To begin with, we considered using it for its original purpose, but smuggling puts you at the mercy of too many other people. We found a better use for it. I’m not sure now whose idea it was. I rather fancy it might have been Matilda’s.’ He hesitated, loath to deny himself credit. ‘No, on second thoughts, I believe it was mine. We would run the inn to the very best of our ability, gaining a reputation for excellent wine and food. That way, sooner or later, we were bound to attract richer visitors to the inn.’

‘Whom you then cold-bloodedly murdered.’

‘Oh, not all of them.‘ Thomas looked pained. ‘Credit us with a little common sense, lad. The circumstances have to be exactly right. A solitary traveller, or with just one servant. And, of course, carrying a large sum of money or jewels about his person. Which is why it’s a slow, waiting game, needing patience. And why we cannot risk being discovered. It will need many more years yet before the three of us are wealthy enough to retire.’

‘And in the meantime you all enjoy your work!‘ I flung at him.

Thomas considered this, a smile hovering about his lips. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ he admitted, almost dreamily.

I felt my skin crawl. I also felt the impatience of the other two, and plunged on desperately. ‘And Mistress Ford informed you of any birds ripe for the plucking staying at the Crossed Hands inn?’

‘Occasionally. You’re thinking of Sir Richard Mallory. He was extremely easy. He loved fine wines, and all Matty had to do was to tell him that we had some of the best in London. She had no difficulty persuading him to come over and sample the contents of our cellar. Of course, we had to make sure that he brought his man with him, as well.’

‘Of course. You couldn’t risk Jacob Pender being left behind to tell where his master had gone. And to wait until the last morning of Sir Richard’s visit, when he had paid his reckoning and his saddle-bags were packed, that was a stroke of genius.’

Thomas smiled benignly. ‘Naturally. The whole operation is always carefully planned.’

‘And Marjorie Dyer? How did you persuade her to join you?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘Nothing simpler. Marjorie has always been ambitious. She had hopes at one time of marrying Alfred Weaver. She may even have been instrumental in helping Mistress Weaver to her death, although I have no proof of that, you understand. Not that it matters. You won’t be telling anyone of my suspicions. But Alfred foolishly failed to make her his wife, even though he continued to avail himself of her - er - services. Last year, while on a visit to Bristol, I took her into my confidence and found her willing enough to play my game. At a price, needless to say. Since when, she has directed at least two well-plumaged birds into our net, apart from Clement Weaver.’ He added regretfully: ‘Believe it or not, I was sorry to have to kill Clement. I’ve known him since childhood, you see.’

‘For God’s sake, let’s get on!’ Abel hissed. ‘Do you mean to stand around here all night, talking?’

‘Steady! Steady!’ Thomas reproved him. ‘You’re losing your nerve, and that will never do. However, you may be right.’ He looked at me. ‘Say your prayers, then, Roger Chapman. You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble, losing Matilda her place at the Crossed Hands and making her a hunted criminal. We really didn’t want you running off to the Duke of Gloucester like that, and hoped to prevent you. But in spite of everything, we should still have let you go tomorrow morning as you planned, if you hadn’t so obviously changed your mind in the middle of supper. A shame, but we really couldn’t have you making yet more trouble. Besides, I calculated it wouldn’t be long before you realized the truth. So!’ He shrugged again. ‘There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid, but to send you down the chute to join our other guests in their watery graves. Don’t worry. You won’t know anything about it, that’s a promise.’

‘Why not?’ Matilda demanded viciously. ‘Why knock him over the head? Let him know what’s happening to him.’

‘Because we don’t want him bound,’ her brother answered tersely. ‘In case his body’s ever found, it must seem as though he simply fell into the river.’

Matilda muttered something under her breath, then added aloud: ‘Then let me do it! I owe him a beating.’

‘A pleasure,’ Thomas said, and handed her my stick, which had been brought down to the cellar with me. ‘Use this. And not too hard, mind. We only want him unconscious.’

‘No!’ I shouted. At least, I think that’s what I shouted. To this day I can’t recall exactly what I said. My brain had ceased to function, and all I remember is a burning rage against God, who, I felt, was responsible for my predicament. I began wriggling around violently on the floor, so that Matilda Ford’s first swipe with my cudgel missed me by inches.

‘Hold him still!’ Thomas commanded Abel. ‘Sit on his legs!’

Abel threw himself to his knees and grabbed both my feet, pinning them to the ground. I kicked with all my might and loosened his grip, but only for a matter of seconds. He was on me again, this time pinioning me by the legs, while Thomas himself moved forward to assist. Their combined weight held me prisoner.

‘Now, Matty!’ her brother shouted.

She was at the back of me and it was impossible to twist my neck that far round. I wanted to meet death face to face, not be struck down from behind like some animal. I felt the rush of air as she raised her arm, and once again I shouted my defiance, trying to swing the upper half of my body out of the way. Thomas yelled something at his partner and their combined grip tightened. I knew that there was no real hope. I shut my eyes and waited for the blow to fall...

Nothing happened, while the moment of anticipation seemed to stretch on and on. After what seemed an agonizing eternity, I cautiously reopened my eyes, to see my captors staring, horror-struck and open-mouthed, in the direction of the cellar stairs. I realized that the two men were no longer sitting on my legs, and I was free to move. I shuffled round as best I could until I, too, could see the flight of stone steps leading down from the ale-room. There were men standing there, quite a few of them, and the leader was holding up a lantern.

A voice said: ‘In the name of King Edward, I arrest you, Thomas Prynne, you, Abel Sampson, and you, Matilda Ford, on a charge of murder.‘ The owner of the voice turned to the men behind him. ‘Take them away.’ Then the man himself jumped sideways off the flight of stairs and came towards me, holding his lantern higher so that it illuminated his face. ‘Well, Master Chapman,’ he said, smiling, ‘that was a close call. I was afraid I was going to be too late.’

I had recognized the voice as soon as he spoke, but had refused to believe the evidence of my own ears. Gone was the gentle, slightly apologetic tone. Master Parsons now spoke with all the authority of one who had the might and weight of the Law behind him.

‘I’m a Sheriff’s officer,’ he explained later, as we sat together in the inn parlour, a bottle of Thomas Prynne’s best wine on the table between us. It was quiet now, after the events of the past hour. Thomas and his two confederates had been bound and led away to prison, but I was still very shaken. Master Parsons poured more wine for us both and went on: ‘We’ve had suspicions about this place for some time now. Rumours have come to our ears of people who lodged here disappearing. But nothing we could prove, even to our own satisfaction. So it was finally decided that I should come to stay as a guest in the hope of discovering something.’

‘And did you?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘Not until you came along, poking your nose in.’

‘What about Master Farmer, last night?’

Gilbert Parsons shrugged. ‘He genuinely did not arrive. Oh, Thomas and Abel, together with Matilda Ford, were waiting like carrion crows to do their evil business, but on this occasion they were balked of their prey.’

I protested: ‘I heard a second horse in the stables, when I went to the privy.’

‘Your imagination, I’m afraid.’ Master Parsons stretched his arms above his head until the bones cracked.

‘Jesu! I shall be glad to get out of this place and home for some sleep at nights. I’ve had precious little this past week.’

I barely heard him. I was too busy wrestling with my indignation. If I hadn’t been convinced that I should find some trace of Master Farmer, I should never have risked looking in Thomas’s cellar. God had fooled me again. All the same, I supposed I shouldn’t complain. He had watched over me and seen that I came to no lasting harm. He had used me as his instrument, and my debt for leaving the abbey was now, I hoped, paid.

I smiled at my companion. ‘For a man who, according to himself, hasn’t slept at nights, you snore very loudly.’ Gilbert laughed. ‘A trick I learned as a child to deceive my mother. My brothers and I used to take it in turns to do the snoring while the others played five-stones or spillikins under the sheets.’ He finished the wine in his cup and stretched again. ‘It’s almost daylight. Do you feel strong enough to come with me and swear you deposition before a magistrate?’