Wheel of Fate (36 page)

‘And it so happened,' Arbella put in, ‘that fortune favoured us. The Arbour had just lost its housekeeper, and Clemency was looking for another. I offered my services and was immediately accepted.' She gave a little crow of laughter. ‘And as if that weren't sufficient good luck for two people, the parish priest of St Botolph's had recently disappeared. My brother simply took his place.'

‘Are you really a priest?' I asked, looking across the table at Henry.

He grinned. ‘Let's say I'm a sort of hedge-priest. I was known around Waterford for my hell-fire sermons.'

‘But did no ecclesiastical authority ever question your right to be in charge at St Botolph's?'

That made him laugh out loud. ‘“Ecclesiastical authorities”!' he mocked. ‘Don't you realize that parish priests are the scum of the earth, the poorest of the poor? No one cares if they live or die or just run away, as my predecessor did. The stipend – if it ever gets paid, that is – is often less than six pounds a year. Most of the poor devils can't write their own names. As long as a parish has a priest, and the parishioners aren't complaining of the lack of one, the authorities are more than happy to ask no questions. I doubt if anyone outside the parish boundaries was even aware that a change had taken place.'

There was silence for a moment or two while I digested this information. Then I shrugged.

‘Very well,' I said at last. ‘So the wheel of fortune spun your way. What next? Did none of the Godsloves recognize you?'

Arbella sneered. ‘Why should they? Nearly twenty-five years had passed. We shouldn't have recognized them if we hadn't known who they were. For quarter of a century, they hadn't given us a thought. And Celia and Martin would have been too young to remember us with any clarity.'

‘And Reynold and Julian Makepeace wouldn't have known you at all,' I said viciously. ‘They'd never set eyes on you or had anything to do with you.'

Both brother and sister looked genuinely bewildered.

‘No, of course they hadn't,' Henry agreed.

‘Then why did you have Reynold murdered?' I demanded furiously.

Henry blinked, staring at me as though I had gone a little mad. Then, slowly, a look of comprehension dawned and he started to grin.

‘You think we had Reynold Makepeace killed! Do the Godsloves believe that, too? Dear oh dear! No, no!' He shook his head. ‘Reynold's death had nothing to do with us. It was just what it seemed – a fatal stabbing during an ale-room brawl.'

For a moment, I was unable to take it in. ‘You're saying you didn't pay to have Landlord Makepeace murdered?'

It was Arbella's turn to laugh, ‘No, of course we didn't. Why should we? He was nothing to us and no blood relation to the others. Besides, at that time Henry and I were still unsure if Clemency and Charity and Sybilla really had been involved in our capture by the slavers.'

‘But sure enough to try to poison Clemency,' I accused her.

Once again there was silence while the siblings looked at one another.

‘Oh dear, oh dear!' Henry repeated, smiling broadly. ‘What misapprehensions you've all been labouring under. We didn't try to poison Clemency. Her illness was a fever of the brain as everyone so rightly thought at the time. But –' and he leaned towards me, the smile replaced by a grim tightening of the lips – ‘it was during that illness that she believed she was going to die and confessed her sins to me as her parish priest.
All
her sins.' He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘Including, of course, the greatest of them – how she and her two sisters had rid themselves of the two children of their erstwhile housekeeper who had become an embarrassment to them, and made some much needed money out of the necessity, as well.'

My brain was reeling, not least because I realized that God had tricked me into this investigation by planting in my mind the belief that my old friend, the landlord of St Brendan the Voyager, had been one of the victims of this series of killings.

‘You didn't arrange the stabbing of Reynold Makepeace?' I repeated stupidly, staring from one to the other of the two smiling faces.

‘No,' Henry Maynard said.

‘No,' echoed Arbella.

‘And until Clemency fell ill and made her confession, you had no proof that your suspicions regarding her and her sisters were correct?'

They both shook their heads. ‘But once we knew the truth,' Arbella went on, ‘we set about getting our revenge. We didn't care how long it took. Indeed, it was all the sweeter for being protracted. At first, they naturally had no suspicion that they were all under sentence of death, not even when Charity died from mushroom poisoning. That was my idea and such a simple thing to arrange. But after Martin Godslove was set upon and killed by street robbers, they began to be afraid and suspect that someone was trying to get rid of them all.'

‘I thought they seemed unusually quick on the uptake,' Henry interrupted, ‘but now I see why. Quite erroneously, they had added their stepbrother's death and Clemency's illness to the list of mishaps that had befallen them.'

He spoke pleasantly, conversationally, as though he were discussing the weather. It brought me out in a sweat.

‘You paid those men to rob and murder Martin Godslove,' I accused him, ‘with the money you'd stolen from the tailor, Peter Coleman, and what you'd raised from selling the pyx you, yourself, had taken from the church. Where did you find these cutthroats?'

Henry looked astonished. ‘In this city,' he said, ‘you can find anyone to do almost anything for money; in the taverns, the brothels, the stews, along the waterfront, anywhere, in fact, where poverty reigns. And poverty is king of the London streets, believe you me! I've seen more real misery here than ever I saw in Ireland.' He laughed. ‘But it isn't just the poor who are willing to take bribes. My sister will confirm that we had no difficulty at all in finding one of the masons working on the Bishop's Gate wall who was quite willing to push a block of masonry down on Sybilla's head. Unfortunately it didn't quite work out as we had hoped, but it gave her and the rest of them a nasty fright. And next time, we shall use a surer method.'

I ignored this unnerving implication that there would be a next time, and demanded, ‘Why wreak your vengeance on Martin and Celia? They could have had nothing to do with their elder siblings' schemes. They were too young. So was Oswald if it comes to that.'

‘They were Godsloves,' Arbella said viciously. ‘They bore the name, and that was enough for us.'

‘But,' I argued, grasping at straws, ‘you told me yourselves that your experience in Ireland wasn't too bad. That the Irish treat their servants well.'

‘And you think that excuses what was done to us?' Henry's voice, raised to a sudden shout, made me jump. ‘We were sold into slavery! Robbed of our freedom! Two children who had done no harm to anyone! Sold by the people we trusted most!'

There was no reply I could make. He was right, of course. But whether it justified the revenge they had taken was another matter and I wasn't sure of the answer.

‘Is Celia really dead?' I asked. I suppose I was hoping against hope that they had been lying.

‘Oh yes, she's dead,' Arbella said. ‘It was easy enough to lure her down here. I just told her that Henry wanted to see her. She came straight away, glad, I think, to have something to take her mind off her quarrel with Roderick Jeavons.' She added with a smile, ‘You mustn't think she suffered. Henry is very quick with his knife. He cut her throat before she had much time to realize what was happening. We fed most of her to the pigs but we gave what was left a decent burial. We told you, that was her grave you were looking at in the garden just now. Later, Henry or I will plant some flowers on it. It should look very pretty by next spring.'

I could feel my belly heaving and for the next few moments had to concentrate hard to prevent myself from being physically sick. I refused to give them the satisfaction of believing I was either disturbed or afraid.

But I was afraid. I was only one against two, and I was under no illusion that, having revealed their guilt, they were about to let me go. I should be quietly despatched with Henry's knife and then suffer poor Celia's disgusting fate. Who would suspect the parish priest, of all men, of doing away with me? His calling was his best protection, but in any case, Arbella would undoubtedly provide him with an alibi. I should simply disappear in mysterious circumstances. There might be a little flurry of interest for a while, but I should soon be forgotten, just one more of the many dozens of people who vanished from the London streets almost every day of the week and were never again accounted for. Adela, of course, would come up to London to search for me when I failed to return home, but I doubted that she would find me – or what remained of me after my body had been mauled by the pig . . .

I gave an involuntary shudder and looked across the table to see Henry Maynard grinning evilly at me, still fondling the handle of his knife. Arbella's gaze, too, was fixed on me, watching my every move. I was not only outnumbered, but was also heavier, and therefore somewhat slower, than my chief adversary.

God, I admonished Him silently, You got me into this situation. You tricked me into it! It's up to You now to get me out.

The words had barely formed in my mind, when I heard footsteps on the path outside. I slid my fingers under the edge of the table and waited, my heart in my mouth. The next moment, the latch of the cottage door lifted and the housekeeper, Ellen, stepped inside.

‘Father,' she was beginning, ‘I've brought your—' But she got no further.

There was another woman with her, but I didn't stop for introductions. As Henry half-turned on his stool and Arbella's eyes momentarily swivelled towards the newcomers, I leapt to my feet, pushing over the table in Henry's direction and, at the same time, making a grab for the knife. As the priest's stool toppled backwards and himself with it, I just managed to grasp its handle, even though my fingers were slippery with sweat. My recollection of the next few seconds is hazy, but I recall dropping to my knees beside him where he lay amid the rushes, jerking his head back against my chest and holding the blade of the knife to his throat. A woman was screaming and a basket had fallen from nerveless hands, a shattered clay bowl and a mess of stew spilling out across the floor.

‘If you make a single move,' I warned Arbella, ‘this knife goes straight into your brother's throat.'

She glared at me, but then looked, almost imploringly I thought, towards the second woman who had accompanied the housekeeper into the cottage. I didn't dare take my eyes off Arbella or slacken my hold on my prisoner. The slightest inattention on my part could be just the opportunity the evil pair were hoping for. So I was totally unprepared for the familiar voice which smote my ears.

‘Don't kill him, Master Chapman. He hasn't harmed me.'

‘
Celia?
' I demanded incredulously, removing my arm from about Henry Maynard's throat and turning to stare up at her. ‘Celia! He-they t-told me you were dead.'

The priest, taking advantage of my state of shock, struggled to his feet. I also stood up slowly, feeling dazed, while Arbella did her best to soothe Ellen's hysterics and revive her with a cupful of elderflower cordial. Then, with her brother's help, she righted the table and stools, scuffing the broken bowl and its contents to one side along with some of yesterday's rushes.

When I would have spoken, Celia held up an imperative finger, commanding my silence, before turning to add her voice to that of Arbella in persuading Ellen to go home.

‘It's just one of Father Berowne's drunken parishioners,' she explained, as Ellen seemed not to recognize me. ‘He'll behave himself now that I'm here. You've had a nasty shock, my dear. Go home and lie down.'

The housekeeper, who was regarding me with round, scared eyes, much as she would have regarded one of Old Nick's henchmen from hell, eventually, after more persuasion, took her departure, leaving behind her a sudden silence which, for a minute or two, no one seemed able to break.

Finally, I asked, ‘Where have you been these last six days, Celia? We've been looking for you everywhere. You must have known we thought you were dead.'

‘I've been staying with Ellen.' she said. ‘Oh, Henry and Lucy intended to kill me when they lured me down here, but when it came to the point, Henry couldn't bring himself to do it. They told me their story instead, and I was so incensed, so angry – so furiously angry – with what Clemency and Charity and Sybilla had done to them that I agreed to play their game, for a while at least, and vanish without letting the others know what had become of me.'

I stared at her in disbelief. ‘This precious pair had your brother murdered,' I shouted. ‘Your brother, Martin, as innocent of their fate as you are yourself. They killed Charity and tried to kill Sybilla. He –' I jabbed a finger in Henry's direction – ‘even tried to poison me.' And I slapped down on the table the box of feverfew extract, pushing it towards the priest. ‘Julian Makepeace asked me to give you this. A little smeared on the rim of a cup or beaker can be quite deadly, he tells me.'

‘I had no intention of killing you,' Henry denied sullenly. ‘I could recognize your sort at once. The sort that sticks his nose into everything as soon as he scents a mystery. I hoped if I made you ill that you'd go back where you came from and take your family with you.' He shrugged resignedly. ‘I should have known better. I should have known that even if you sent your wife and children away, you'd remain behind, dogged to the last.' He regarded me, pale but defiant. ‘So? What do you intend to do?'