11 - The Lammas Feast (20 page)

I picked up my pack again.

‘I’m going out,’ I said. ‘We’ll discuss this later, when I get back. Perhaps, by then, we’ll both have had a chance to think things over. I’ll leave seeing John Overbecks until tomorrow.’

‘I shan’t change my mind,’ Adela said stubbornly, raising her chin. ‘And don’t forget to take the dog.’

I glanced towards Hercules, to where he had collapsed on his bed, head resting on his paws, tongue lolling out of one corner of his mouth, eyes closed.

‘It’s too hot for him outside,’ I snapped. ‘He’s exhausted. Can’t you see that?’ And I quit the cottage, without any word of farewell to either Adela or the children.

I felt ashamed of this graceless departure before I had gone even a few yards, but, like Adela, I too could be stubborn and I refused to turn back. I walked blindly, unaware of my surroundings until someone spoke to me.

‘Why are you in such an almighty hurry, Chapman? You won’t find many customers down by the river.’

I started and looked about me. Only then did I realize that I was abreast of the Dominican friary, walking towards the banks of the Frome. The man who had addressed me was one of the brothers who had been fishing the previous evening when I had discovered Walter’s body.

I laughed awkwardly and pulled up short. ‘I wasn’t really conscious of where I was going,’ I explained. ‘A quarrel with my wife.’

‘A bad one, judging by the expression on your face.’ He continued to hoe a patch of garden on the other side of the paling. ‘There’s a lot to be said for the celibate life.’

I was about to agree fervently, but something stopped me. Honesty reared its inconvenient head. However much I tried to persuade myself otherwise, I knew deep down that I should hate to be a bachelor again. Instead, I found myself asking, ‘Do you go fishing every evening? Were you down by the river on Tuesday?’

He screwed up his eyes, considering the question. ‘Brother Thomas and I do get out our fishing rods and lines most evenings after Vespers in the summer months. When it’s fine, of course, that goes without saying. I’m Brother Martin, by the way. We probably
were
on the river bank on Tuesday. One day’s much like another to me. Are you the young man who found the body? I seem to recognize you.’

I admitted the charge. ‘The man who was drowned,’ I said, ‘did you happen to see him down by the river on Tuesday, towards dusk? It must have been then that he slipped and fell in.’

‘Drunk, you mean? Well, it wouldn’t be the first accident of its kind.’

‘But did you see him?’

The Friar shook his head. ‘Not that I recall. But I could ask Brother Thomas if he remembers anything.’

‘If you’d be so very good,’ I grovelled.

Brother Martin put down his hoe and disappeared in the direction of a cluster of outbuildings, situated on the further perimeter of the friary fence. When he returned, he had with him the other brother whom I had seen and spoken to the preceding day – a tall, ascetic-looking man with a pair of intelligent brown eyes. As I opened my mouth to speak, he held up one hand.

‘It’s all right. You’ve no need to explain. Brother Martin has done so already.’ He approached the paling, regarding me appraisingly over the top of it. He evidently decided that I was worth talking to, and that he wouldn’t be wasting his time, because he let himself out by the gate and came to stand beside me. He went on, ‘I saw somebody in the distance, crossing the Broad Meads from the direction of the Needless Gate and Bridge just as Brother Martin and I reached the friary after our fishing expedition on Tuesday. And before you ask, no, I couldn’t see who it was, only that it was a man. It might have been the young man who so unfortunately drowned, but I could not possibly say for certain. A lot of people of all ages use that gap by the Needless Gate to get in and out of the town after curfew.’

‘Was anyone else with this person you saw?’ I asked eagerly.

Brother Thomas shook his head. ‘No–o. But . . .’

‘But?’ I held my breath.

There was a momentary hesitation before the friar continued, ‘I did glance over my shoulder before following Brother Martin into the enclosure; a brief glance, simply at the beauty of the evening as the daylight faded and the stars came out. So my eyes may have deceived me. Yet I have a vague recollection of seeing a second figure, standing on the river bank. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but he might well have been awaiting the other man’s arrival.’

‘You say “he” and “the other man”. You don’t think, then, that it was a lovers’ tryst?’

Brother Thomas pursed his lips. ‘It was my impression that the second figure was also a man. But it
was
only an impression. I wouldn’t swear to it on oath. It might have been a woman.’

‘Could you give me any sort of description? Tall or short? Fat or thin?’

Brother Thomas began to display signs of irritation. ‘I’ve told you, Chapman, it was dark. The stars were shining. The man – or woman – was nothing more than a shadow. Furthermore, he – or she – may have had no connection with the first person that I saw. And the first person that I saw may
not
have been the young man who was drowned. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more that I can say. I’m not going to make things up, or embroider a plain tale, just to satisfy some theory that you’re harbouring.’

I thanked him, and watched as the two brothers resumed their work, Brother Martin continuing with his hoeing, Brother Thomas retreating to the outhouses from whence he had been summoned. Then I turned and retraced my steps across the Broad Meads.

The River Frome flowed along in the lee of the castle for a little way, before following the curve of the city wall, meandering first under the Pithay Bridge and then, some yards further on, beneath the Needless Bridge, which led to the Needless Gate. It suddenly struck me that this bridge and gate, built only a few hundred yards from the Pithay Bridge and Gate, could stand as a monument to civic authorities everywhere, in any age and time. Honest citizens daily risk life and limb from worn cobblestones, inadequate drainage systems, falling masonry, and the City Fathers’ response is always, ‘What can we do about it? We have no money!’ But let someone propose a really
unnecessary
scheme, and the civic coffers are immediately open to him, gushing forth money as from a bottomless well. I have no idea what had been the intended name for the Needless Bridge and Gate, but Bristolians hadn’t been fooled for a minute. Their nickname had quite rightly stuck to the unwanted structure down through the years.

I crossed the bridge and at once saw the gaping hole in the wall that both John Overbecks and Brother Thomas had mentioned. Next to one of the gate-towers, part of the masonry had crumbled away, leaving a space wide enough for quite a substantial person to squeeze through on to the bridge. I was also interested to note, when I got up close, that the small, creamy-green flowers and fleshy circular leaves of the wall pennywort, growing in the crevices, had recently been crushed by someone pushing past them. And a few fresh pellets of mortar lay among the grasses.
Had
Walter Godsmark left the city this way late on Tuesday evening? Had someone else also used it, earlier, to lie in wait at a prearranged spot, opposite the castle weir? But if so, who? And why? Or had Walter’s death really been the accident it appeared to be?

I passed under the arch into the city – still steaming like a cauldron in the unrelenting heat – and found that I was only a ten minutes’ walk from Goody Godsmark’s cottage. I debated whether or not to call on her, there being a number of questions I wished to ask, but, after some consideration, I decided against it. Her grief would not have abated by much from that of this morning, and the cottage would doubtless still be full of nosy, if well-meaning, neighbours. So, what should I do?

My grievance against Adela, half-forgotten during the past hour, came back in full force. Although it was nearly suppertime, I refused to go home. Let her worry about me, I thought meanly; let her explain my absence to the children. I would go and talk to Cicely Ford about the events of this morning. (At least, that was my excuse.) I had done no work today, in spite of carrying my pack around with me wherever I went, but I refused to feel penitent. I would retrace my steps over Needless Bridge into the Broad Meads, rather than cross the city to the Frome Gate, which was too close to our cottage in Lewin’s Meadow, and where Adela might spot me. Instead, I would go by Silver Street to Magdalen Lane and from there to Saint Michael’s Hill.

The cottage opposite the gibbet was empty now, except for Cicely herself, seated in the armchair, silent and white-faced, staring into space. My knock on the door failed to rouse her, and I had to go right in and touch her shoulder before she became aware of my presence.

‘Roger!’ A tired smile lit her face and she clasped my hand. ‘It’s good to see you.’

I glanced around. ‘They’ve removed the stranger’s body, then.’ It was such an obvious remark that I couldn’t help smiling as I made it.

‘Sergeant Manifold had it taken away. Some men with a cart came for it a while ago. And Sister Jerome has returned to the nunnery to comfort the other nuns. They are very upset by what has happened.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Let me get you a drink. You’re looking weary.’

‘Elderflower wine, please,’ I said hurriedly, remembering Richard Manifold’s reaction to Cicely’s home-made ale. She gave a little half-smile, as if she guessed my reason. When I had quenched my thirst, I went on, ‘I want to ask you about this morning.’

‘What about this morning?’ She arched her delicate eyebrows.

‘Marion B–– Er, Sister Jerome told us that when she returned from the nunnery, after Prime, you were asleep in that chair, Peter Littleman was seated on the stool at the foot of the bed, Jack Gload and the doctor were outside, but came back a moment or two later. Is that your recollection of how things were when you woke up?’

Cicely puckered her brow. ‘I – I think so,’ she said. ‘I had been soundly asleep, having dropped off towards dawn after a bad night. I was naturally a little confused on first awakening, but yes, I recall Sister Jerome standing beside my chair, her hand on my shoulder. I think it must have been her touch that roused me. And I remember the three men clustered at the foot of the bed. I didn’t really look at our patient very closely. Sergeant Manifold and the King’s man from London arrived shortly afterwards, and that, of course, was when we all realized that the stranger was dead. Why are you asking these questions? Do you seriously believe he was murdered, Roger?’

I sighed. ‘I thought so, from some of the tell-tale signs in his face. So, I’m certain, did Timothy Plummer. But I very much doubt that the poor fellow will get justice now. Master Plummer is on his way back to London, and the sheriff’s men won’t want to know. As far as they’re concerned, whether proven or not, the stranger was a Tudor spy and his murder not worth investigating. His death is an embarrassment to them, and they’ll be glad not to pursue the matter further.’

Cicely was horrified. ‘You mean his killer will be allowed to go free?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ I hesitated. ‘Unless
I
continue the investigation.’

She grasped and shook my arm. ‘You
must,
Roger. No one should be permitted to get away with murder.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘There
was
something,’ she said. ‘Something that I either saw or heard just as I was waking up. But I can’t recall exactly what it was.’

‘Think!’ I urged her excitedly. ‘Try to remember!’

After a minute or two’s agonized concentration, she finally shook her head. ‘No, it’s no use. And yet . . .’

‘And yet?’ I pressed her.

‘All I can say is that I have a vague memory of a flurry of movement. A blur; just something seen out of the corner of one eye. I don’t think I was even awake properly. I think I may have fallen asleep again for a second or two, in the way one does when surfacing from a heavy sleep.’ She cradled her face between her hands. ‘Someone spoke . . . there was a creaking sound . . . No, it’s gone.’

‘Who spoke? It might be important. Did you recognize the voice?’

Cicely slumped despondently into the armchair. ‘I’m sorry, Roger, but that’s all I can tell you. The more I think about it, the less I can remember. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ I smiled at her. ‘But if you should recollect anything else . . .’

She smiled wanly in return. ‘Of course, I’ll let you know.’

I set down my empty beaker and picked up my pack. ‘I must be going home,’ I said reluctantly. ‘I’m late for supper.’ I grimaced. ‘If, that is, I get any.’

Cicely held out her hand. ‘What’s the matter, Roger? Something’s troubling you.’

So I set down my pack again, pulled forward the rickety stool, and unburdened myself of my grievances. I felt a traitor to Adela, but I badly needed a second opinion, and felt sure of a sympathetic hearing.

But I had ignored another of my golden rules: never be sure of anything where a woman is concerned. When I at last finished speaking, Cicely said coolly, ‘I agree with Adela. I shouldn’t care to put myself under any sort of obligation where Jane Overbecks is involved. Your wife rightly regards the safety of your little son as greater than her own or your comfort.’

‘Is–isn’t that being unfair to Mistress Overbecks?’ I stuttered.

Cicely shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t like to be unfair, but I don’t think so. Sister Jerome has talked to me about her sister. I know she considers Jane’s condition to be verging, at times, on madness. It’s not Jane’s fault, you understand. Something very terrible happened to both sisters when they were younger. In fact, Jane was not much more than a child.’

‘Yes, I know all about it,’ I said. Then, in response to Cicely’s startled look, I added, ‘Margaret Walker told me. Marion Baldock confessed everything to her not long after she and her sister arrived in Bristol. Margaret has kept quiet about it until now.’

Cicely failed to enquire why Margaret had suddenly decided to break the confidence: she was, I think, too busy feeling hurt that she was not, as she had been led to believe, the only other person in on the secret. She merely said quietly, ‘Then, if you know about Jane, I’m surprised you could even consider risking your baby son anywhere in her vicinity.’