Wheel of Fate (12 page)

I paused to use the public latrine and to allow Hercules, who accompanied me, to cock his leg against the wall of one of the almshouses, before proceeding to the Bishop's Gate. The cries coming from the Bedlam were as distressing as before, but I shut my ears to them and looked up at the men working above me, perched on the scaffolding over the gate. Experience having taught me that there are few things so unsatisfactory as a conversation carried on at a distance, I walked under the archway – waved through by a gatekeeper plainly disgrunted by the disturbance – to find that within the walls there were several workmen at ground level. One was busy mixing mortar while two others were loading stones into baskets which were then raised by pulleys to the men overhead.

I addressed the former, his grudging, almost sulky attitude towards his job informing me that, like the other hands, he was English (although there had to be an overseer from the Steelyard lurking somewhere about to ensure that there was no slacking). My fellow countrymen were notorious for being averse to too much hard labour.

‘There was a lady injured here a day or so ago,' I said, not beating about the bush. ‘Did you happen to see the accident?'

‘Piss off!' growled the mortar-mixer, a heavy-jowled individual with hair that stood on end as though he had just received a fright.

The tone made Hercules bark menacingly. I hushed him and fingered the coins in my purse.

‘Don't be like that,' I murmured. ‘I feel sure this is thirsty work.'

The man licked his cracked lips and cast a quick glance over his shoulder, confirming my suspicion that one of the Hanse merchants was somewhere in the offing. ‘What do you want to know?'

I transferred a couple of coins from my purse to my hand, but still kept a tight grip on them.

‘Were you present when the accident occurred?' I enquired. He nodded and grunted. ‘Well, what happened?' I demanded impatiently as he seemed disinclined to add anything further.

‘One o' them blocks of stone nearly squashed 'er flat. A pity it didn't. Still,' he added, brightening, ‘it 'it 'er a fair whack. Set up a screech, she did. You'd of thought she was being gutted at Tyburn.'

‘You don't like the lady,' I said. ‘Why not? Do you know her?'

The man spat. ‘One 'o them high and mighty bitches from the old house up the road beyond the 'spital fields. Brother's a lawyer, a race 'o men I detests.' He gave another quick look around and held out his hand for the money.

‘Not so fast!' I whipped my hands behind my back. ‘In your opinion was it a genuine accident or did someone deliberately drop that block of stone from the scaffolding with the intention of killing Mistress Godslove?'

He visibly jumped. ‘'Ere! What you implyin'? We're honest men, we are. Anyway, why would anyone want to kill the silly cow?'

‘Money?' I suggested. ‘Someone offered you and your friends a goodish sum to do murder?'

The mortar-mixer advanced his ugly face to within an inch of mine. The stink of his breath almost suffocated me.

‘I told you just now to piss off and I meant it. You and your money and that fart of an animal what's pretending to be a dog.'

He kicked out at Hercules, who promptly bit him on the ankle, then began barking like a fiend. Heads started turning in our direction and the two men filling the baskets straightened their backs and glared menacingly in my direction. I realized that I had handled the situation badly and had no choice now but to retreat with as much dignity as I could muster. I dropped the coins back in my purse, grabbed Hercules and retreated to a safe distance where I bent to fix his rope collar and lead around his neck, receiving his lick of affection full across my nose.

‘I made a mess of that,' I told him, wiping my face.

On reflection, however, I decided that something had been gained from the encounter. The mortar-mixer had obviously been rattled by my suggestion that one of his companions had been paid to make an attempt on Sybilla's life. His reaction had not been the scornful dismissal of an innocent man. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the more his sudden spurt of anger seemed to indicate that there was some truth in my accusation. Or was it simply righteous indignation? Was I reading more into his belligerent attitude than I should?

I sighed. The beginning of any enquiry, before the various pieces started falling into place to make a whole picture, was always the same: self-questioning and doubts. I glanced down at Hercules trotting happily by my side, eyes bright, tail well up, not a care in the world. A dog's life. There might be something to be said for it, after all.

As I came abreast of Crosby's Place, another great wagon was blocking the road. On this occasion furniture, including a couple of armchairs, seat and back-rest richly upholstered in embroidered blue velvet, were being unloaded along with what I guessed to be a tapestry, rolled and protected with sacking. I looked around hoping to see a familiar face, then realized that the only member of the Duke of Gloucester's household whom I knew at all well was Timothy Plummer, his spymaster general. And he would surely still be travelling south in his master's train.

I turned right as far as the Stock's Market, left into Walbrook Street and right again, entering Bucklersbury from the Old Barge end. I walked along slowly, examining the names above the doors on my left. Someone – I couldn't recall who – had said that Reynold's brother's shop was on the opposite side of the street to the Voyager, but not too distant. And there, finally, it was. An apothecary's window full of the usual bottles and jars with, over the lintel, the faded legend: ‘Julian Makepeace'.

I knocked on the door. Nothing happened, so I knocked again. Hercules, who was anxious to inspect some fly-blown offal in the central drain, pulled impatiently at his lead. I hauled him back and knocked a third time, and on this occasion my summons was finally answered. There was the sound of bolts being withdrawn and, a moment later, a sleepy young maid servant finally opened the door.

‘Yes?' she yawned.

‘I would like to speak to Apothecary Makepeace,' I answered.

The young woman shook her head. ‘Master's away until next week. Gone to S'ampton to see a friend.'

I groaned inwardly. This, I knew, was merely the first setback. There were bound to be others, and my dream of solving the mystery quickly and easily and returning home to Bristol was doomed, as such dreams always were, to failure.

‘To Southampton, eh?'

This time the girl nodded. ‘That's right, sir.'

‘Did he happen to mention which day he would return?'

‘No, sir. Said to expect him when I saw him, that's all.'

I looked her over. Not the brightest of damsels I guessed. ‘Is there anyone else in the house I could speak to?'

Again she shook her head. ‘No, sir, there's only him and me. I'm Master Makepeace's housekeeper.'

I raised my eyebrows at that. Considering that the apothecary, even if younger than Reynold, must be a man of advanced, or advancing, years, this buxom young person must surely be more to him than a housekeeper. And as if in answer to my thoughts, she gave a provocative grin.

‘Er – quite so,' I murmured. ‘So . . . You can't give me any idea when your master will be home? When it might be convenient to call again?'

She tilted her head to one side, apparently giving my question serious consideration, but after several moments' cogitation, said flatly, ‘No.'

Looked at closely, she really was a very pretty piece. My respect for Julian Makepeace soared.

‘I'll just have to keep trying until I find him returned, then.'

She regarded me sympathetically. ‘If it's a remedy you're wanting, sir, there are plenty of other 'pothecaries in Bucklersbury. You could try one of them.'

‘No, it's a personal matter.' A sudden thought occurred to me. ‘Your master hasn't had any – er – any unexplained accidents recently, I suppose? In the . . . the last year or so, that is?'

The girl looked bemused. ‘Not that I know of, sir.'

‘His brother, Landlord Makepeace of the Voyager, was murdered, I believe.'

Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Well, yes, sir, but that was going on for two years ago, and he wasn't murdered exactly. He was knifed in a common brawl.'

‘And there was never any suggestion that his death might not have been . . . well . . . not an accident?'

‘Goodness no, sir! Leastways, the master never said anything like that to me. Never said anything like it to no one as far's I know. It was just some rowdy young bucks making trouble, and poor Landlord Makepeace got in the way, trying to calm them down. These fellows had their knives out you see, sir. But if you don't believe me, you can ask the master yourself when he comes back.'

‘No, no, of course I believe you,' I said hurriedly. ‘All the same, I'll probably call again next week to have a word with Master Apothecary.'

She gave me a sleepy smile. ‘You do that, sir. But go gentle with him. The thought of his brother's death still upsets him even though it was all that long time ago now. They were close, being as they grew up together and had to keep one another company.'

I thanked her and made to move on. Hercules was getting annoyed at his enforced inactivity, and as I have mentioned somewhere before, he had the unpleasant habit of peeing down my leg if he were too frustrated. I heard the shop door shut behind me as I walked a yard or so along the street, where I found myself facing St Brendan the Voyager.

On impulse, and because I was growing thirsty, I crossed over, picking my way carefully through the refuse in the drain, and entered the inn. Then I wished I hadn't. The contrast between how it used to be during Reynold's time and how it was now was painful. Gone was the cleanliness and order, the smell of good meat roasting on the spit, the quiet hum of respectful conversation. In their place were filthy floor rushes, unchanged for days, the stink of urine and stale beer, raucous laughter and raised voices singing bawdy songs. And presiding over all was the slatternly red-haired woman and her two equally red-haired sons whom I had glimpsed last October when I had first learned of Reynold Makepeace's untimely death.

I nearly walked straight out again. But the sight of a sober-looking man in a plain brown tunic and hose, quietly supping and grimacing over his drink in a retired corner of the ale-room, encouraged me to squeeze on to the empty stool beside him.

‘This place has changed,' I remarked as I settled myself with Hercules at my feet. (He was used to inns and taverns. He felt at home in them.)

My neighbour grunted. ‘You never said a truer word, master. Heartbreaking, that's what it is. Did you know it in Landlord Makepeace's day?'

‘I did,' I responded feelingly. ‘I've stayed here a couple o' times. Even brought my wife here once.' I stared around me disparagingly. ‘Couldn't do it today.'

‘You surely couldn't,' he agreed vehemently. He spat. ‘Pigsty, that's what it is now. I shouldn't bother calling for the pot boy. The ale ain't worth drinking.'

‘I'm thirsty,' I said apologetically as I gave my order to the skinny waif in a dirty apron who had condescended to ask me what I wanted. ‘I heard that Landlord Makepeace was killed while trying to break up a fight between two bravos. Is that right?'

My companion nodded gloomily. ‘All too true, unfortunately. A bad business. The place has gone downhill, as you can see, since this bunch of cut-throats bought it. It's no better than any of the taverns along the waterfront.'

‘I suppose,' I suggested tentatively, ‘that it was an accident?' The man looked enquiringly at me. ‘I mean there was never any talk that Reynold's death was – well – murder? That the young men involved had been, shall we say, paid to arrange it?'

‘Never!' was the uncompromising answer. ‘Not a whisper. What makes you think otherwise?'

‘Just an idea.' I smiled lamely.

‘You're not from around here, are you?' He regarded me curiously. ‘West Country, would be my guess.' My ale arrived, the pot slapped down on the table so that some of its contents spilled across the board. He went on, ‘Yes, definitely West Country. I worked in Bristol for a year or so when I was younger, and I've never forgotten that peculiar accent.'

‘I was born and raised in Wells,' I replied huffily; but then relented. ‘However, you're right. I've lived in Bristol for many years now. As I believe Reynold and his brother also did once, although he never thought to mention the fact to me.'

The stranger swallowed the last of his beer. ‘That's because he never did live there. He and Julian were local lads, born and bred. Brought up by their grandmother who had a house in Candlewick Street. You're getting them confused with their mother, Widow Makepeace. Now if memory serves me aright, she did marry a man from Bristol – or thereabouts – and went to live there. The younger boy must've been about eleven, Reynold a year or two older. That was when they went to stay with their grandmother, I suppose. I think I once heard somebody say that Widow Makepeace had two more children by her second husband.'

Martin and Celia Godslove! I bit back the exclamation and tried to appear no more than mildly interested. ‘Are you saying that Reynold and Julian Makepeace never left London?'

‘That's right. I don't think they ever did.' He suddenly tired of the subject. ‘So, what do you think's going to happen?' he asked abruptly.

‘Happen?' I stared at him in bewilderment, caught up in my own concerns.

‘Now we have a child as king.' He spoke impatiently, as though the subject were of far more importance than the history of the Makepeace brothers. Which of course it was. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Who's going to control him and the country do you reckon? The Woodvilles or Gloucester?'