[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak (14 page)

I hunted around until I found the key where Philip had dropped it, on top of the table alongside his 'all-night'. This had not been touched, the jug of ale still full, the small loaf of bread still uneaten. I realized suddenly that in spite of everything, I was desperately hungry. I had not broken my fast since supper, and not even abject fear and panic could quell my appetite. But first I must make sure that the lock of the door still worked; that I had not damaged it beyond use with my inexpert lock-picking. It was almost with disbelief that I heard the wards slide smoothly home, and blessed Nicholas Fletcher for his careful tuition. I sat down on the edge of Philip's cold mattress and started eating.

Until I had satisfied my hunger and slaked my thirst, I refused to face the shadows gibbering for attention on the fringes of my mind. I was cold and hot by turns, appalled by what had happened. And angry, too; angry at my own incredible simplicity and stupidity, which had allowed Philip to play a trick on me which should not have deceived a schoolboy; but angry, also, with Philip's own irresponsibility, which had led him to risk his mission and his life for a clandestine meeting with a woman. But I must not permit my emotions to override all other considerations. Before daylight came, and the inevitable discovery of the body, there were matters I had to sort out and dispositions to make. For that, I needed nourishment.

The bread and ale, eaten to the last crumb and drained to the final dreg, did their work and made me feel a little better.

My head cleared somewhat, and I proceeded to do what I should have done immediately on returning to the bedchamber; I checked my belongings to make sure that King Edward's letter to Duke Francis was still among them.

It showed what an innocent I was in this world of plot and counter-pl0t that I had not until this moment considered the possibility that Philip might have been lured from the room in order for someone to steal what he had been killed for. The letter was, however, still there, in my own pouch, wrapped in my bundle beneath the truckle-bed, and I sent up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude.

Philip's motive for entrusting me with the letter was now clearer. With one comer of his mind, he had acknowledged the risk he was running with this midnight assignation. What was it he had said? 'If anything should happen to me, it could be the first thing my attacker would look for about my person.' There had been a whiff of danger in his nostrils, which he had considered too faint to heed very deeply, but he had made what precaution he could against it. Yet surely he would not have taken the letter with him to a love-tryst with Isobel Warden? He would have left it behind. Even so, he had considered it safer among my belongings than his own...

My eyelids were beginning to droop. In spite of the turmoil of my mind and the need to act the innocent when daylight came at last, my body demanded rest. It is the one craving almost impossible to resist, over which we have no control. I have heard of men condemned to the gallows still sleeping soundly on the eve of execution. And I was no exception. Without any later memory of doing so, I lay down on my bed, covered myself with the blankets, and within moments was fast asleep.

No dreams disturbed my slumbers; no nightmares came to carry me on their backs to the gates of some hideous world where horrid fancies lurked, waiting to assume human shape and gather me into their fearful embrace. Rather, I slept deeply and awoke refreshed, conscious that it was morning even before I noticed, beyond the leaded glass, the faint rim of daylight around the shutter. I stretched contentedly, as someone who was at peace with himself and his surroundings, before I turned my head and saw Philip's empty bed. At once, memory came flooding back. I sat upright, starting to sweat, while I tried to convince myself that my experiences of the night had been nothing more than a terrible dream. But it was no use. Philip was dead, murdered, and in order to deflect suspicion from myself I must pretend not to know what had happened until the news was brought by others.

I opened the window inwards and unbarred the shutter, flinging it back against the outer wall. A hazy sunlight lit the chamber, the threatened storm of the night either having passed or come to nothing. It was not as clear and crisp a day as the previous one had been, but the breeze had dropped and the darker clouds dispersed, leaving only a faint, milky whiteness to obscure the sun. I turned back into, the room and picked up my cudgel from the floor where I had laid it on my return earlier that morning. Carrying it across to the window, I examined it more closely and was able to see that, in spite of its cleaning in the river, it was still badly discoloured at one end. There were also a few of Philip's dark curly hairs adhering to the wood, and I carefully picked them off before letting them float out of the window. That done, I felt easier in my mind. The discoloration, if noticed, could more simply be explained away, and in any case, only the murderer knew that it was the weapon used to kill Philip Underdown.

The next thing to do was to hide the King's letter about my person, but my belt-pouch was too obvious a place for concealment. After a moment or two, I thought of my jerkin.

This was no peasant's garment, made of that rough woollen cloth known in my youth as brocella, but was fashioned from soft leather, and had been given to me by a widow as payment for some goods which I had sold her. She had fallen on hard times since her husband's death, and had been happy to let me exchange my wares for some of his clothes, which were no longer of any use to her. The attraction of the jerkin had been its lining which was made from scarlet, that soft, cochineal-dyed wool normally used for undergarments, a protection against cold in the winter months. Now I proposed using it for another purpose and, taking my knife, I made a slit of several inches in the lining of the front left-hand side, pushing the letter between the wool and the leather. Later, I would ask Janet Overy for a needle and thread to make fast the rent, but in the meantime the paper would be safe enough, dropping as it would to the hem with no danger of falling out or being lost. That done, I put the jerkin on and fastened it at the waist, before using the garderobe at the top of the stairs and proceeding to the kitchen for breakfast. (Here, I must say that 'privy' has always been a good enough word for me, but some people have tender sensibilities and prefer the Norman French.)

I crossed the courtyard warily, every sense alert for any sign of commotion, but as yet there was none. The gates stood open and a steady stream of servants and manor dependants passed in and out. Smoke poured from the hole in the bakery roof and steam issued from the laundry, where a cauldron of water heated slowly over the fire. I entered the kitchen, aware that the morning was already some way advanced and that it was probably nearer eight o'clock than seven. This assumption was borne out by the fact that two of the kitchen-maids were scouring the pots and pans used to cook the various breakfast dishes, and because Janet Overy turned a frowning face towards me.

'You and your master are late this morning,' she grumbled and nodded towards the table. 'Sit down, sit down!' She picked up a wooden bowl. I’II get you some porridge. And Agnes!' She addressed one of the maids. 'Give Roger Chapman a mazer of ale.' She went on, filling the bowl with gruel: 'And where's your master, eh? If he lies abed much longer he'll get nothing to eat until dinner. I can't keep food hot and the girls idling about here all morning. They've other work to do, and so have I.'

She seemed harassed, and I wished she had been in better mood. It would have been easier to practise my deception.

However, there was no help for it and I said as calmly as I could: 'But I thought Master Underdown had already eaten. He was not in his bed when ! awoke and I imagined he had risen early. You... You have not seen him then?' 'No, I have not,' she answered testily. 'And it seems to me a great pity that he should have gone wandering off about the manor before breaking his fast.' She placed the bowl of porridge before me, adding on a gentler note: 'Perhaps when you have finished eating, you would find him, if he has not come back by then.' As though suddenly ashamed of her ill-humour, she smiled and patted my shoulder. 'Sorry, lad. It's not your fault that Master Underdown is not here. But all has gone awry this morning. I myself overslept and was late in rousing Alwyn to unlock the gates. And when he did get them open, we found another visitor at our door, another mouth to feed.' She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen fire, where I became aware for the first time of a man's figure seated on a stool, hunched forward, his hands extended towards the flames for warmth.

There was something familiar about the man's back, but before I had time to speculate on who he was, he rose from the stool and I was able to see him clearly. Short and stocky, with light sandy hair, straggling beard, weather-beaten countenance and a pair of very bright blue eyes, he was instantly recognizable.

'You!' I gasped. 'What in heaven's name are you doing here? And how did you find us?'

It was Silas Bywater.

He brought his stool over to the table and sat down beside me, sucking and picking at his teeth, obviously having fed well and enjoyed his breakfast.

'Oh, you weren't difficult to find,' he said, 'not for someone like me, who has friends in Plymouth. It didn't take me long to discover you and Master Underdown had been staying at the Turk's Head. And the landlord didn't deny it when I put it to him. But he said you'd left and he didn't know where you'd gone.' Silas laughed. 'Of course I knew he was lying.'

'When did you reach Plymouth?' I asked. My mind was racing, trying to assess what the presence of Silas Bywater in the neighbourhood meant. If he had been waiting outside the gates this morning, he had plainly been in the vicinity of the manor, even within its pale, last night. Was he Philip's murderer, and not the unknown traveller at the inn, after all? Had he been the man I had seen lurking in the shadows on Sutton harbour quay? There were so many questions and as yet no answers. I had, moreover, to school my features into near indifference, as though his movements were of little importance. I prayed that someone would come soon with news of Philip's death. I found it difficult to dissemble.

'Towards dusk on Saturday,' he said in reply to my question. 'I got a lift from a man carting peat as far as Plympton Priory. I spent Friday night there and finished my journey the following day on foot, reaching home late in the afternoon, so I made no inquiries for you until the Sunday. Not that inquiries were really necessary.' He grinned and stroked his beard. 'I knew where Master Underdown would be. Where he always lodged when he was in Plymouth, with his crony John Penryn.'

I said slowly. 'So you were in the town on Saturday night and knew where to find us. You didn't, perhaps, attempt to break into Master Underdown's bedchamber with a view to finishing what you had tried to accomplish, but failed to do at Buckfast Abbey?'

He sent me a sidelong glance, showing the whites of his eyes like a nervous horse. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he answered. 'I've come after Philip Underdown for one reason only, to prise out of him some of the money he once promised and has never paid me.'

'You still haven't told me how you traced us here. You say John Penryn denied all knowledge of our whereabouts.'

Silas Bywater shrugged. 'If you want to leave a city secretly, at night, you should control your horses better. If one gives voice, it attracts attention. A friend of mine saw men and horses passing her window well after curfew, and judged by their general direction that they were on the road to the ferry. The ferryman is another old friend of mine and confirmed that he conveyed two men and their mounts across the Tamar in the dead hours of night when honest citizens should be sleeping in their beds. He also told me that once on the other side, his passengers rode north. I spent all yesterday following in your footsteps and making inquiries at every house I passed. I knew that if Philip Underdown was working this side of the river, he would be holed up somewhere, although God knows I didn't expect to find him housed as well as this! I spent last night sleeping under a hedge, and only came to the gate this morning to beg some breakfast before carrying on with my search. When you walked in just now and I realized you and Master Underdown must be staying here, I could hardly believe my eyes. But then I thought: Why not? He always had the nerve of the devil!' Silas Bywater shifted on his stool and turned to face me, looking me squarely in the face for the first time. 'You're his new partner, are you? Taken the place of his brother? Strange, you don't look like the sort of young man to be mixed up in Philip Underdown's business.'

I stared at him stupidly for a moment or two before suddenly understanding. Of course, Silas Bywater had no means of knowing that Philip had changed his occupation after that last ill-fated voyage of the Speedwell. He still thought him engaged in the business of trading and slaving, and imagined me to be his accomplice. But that did not mean he was innocent of Philip's murder. If he had come across him by chance last night, the desire for revenge might have overwhelmed him. He could well have seized or picked up the cudgel and bludgeoned Philip to death before stopping to think what he was doing.

At this point Janet Overy, who had been instructing the kitchen-maids in the making of a beef and vegetable pottage, left the cooking-bench at the far end of the kitchen and came across to the table,.

'I cannot keep the porridge hot any longer,' she told me briskly. 'I need the chimney crane to hang the stew-pot on, so your master will have to go hungry until dinner. If you find him, tell him so.' She glanced at Silas Bywater. 'And you, my man, you're welcome to stay and share another meal with us if you're so minded.' She studied him thoughtfully. "Your face is familiar. Have we met somewhere before, or am I mistaken?'