Death and the Chapman

by Kate Sedley

  I stood upright, dwarfing his slight, dark figure, but he was used to that. Both his remaining brothers were big, golden-haired men.

  ‘Your Grace,’ I said, ‘that is part of a story which, with your permission, I will tell you as briefly as possible, because I need your help for my own purposes, once you have rescued the Lady Anne. If you will be gracious enough to hear me out.’

  He hesitated, clearly anxious to know only one thing, but his natural courtesy overcame his impatience. He sat down in one of the other two armchairs and indicated that I should begin.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Sit down, lad, and have some wine. You look exhausted.’ Thomas Prynne urged me to a seat in the ale-room, where Master Parsons, his legal worries temporarily forgotten, was regarding me goggle-eyed. ‘I presume this hullabaloo at the Crossed Hands inn has something to do with you? His Grace of Gloucester seemed very friendly before you parted company.’

  Master Parson’s look was now a blend of curiosity and awe. I had suddenly ceased to be a common chapman and become instead a person on friendly terms with a royal duke. Abel Sampson, who had followed us into the ale-room, also accorded me a new respect, while Thomas was as good as his word, and brought me a cup of his finest Bordeaux wine, drawn from a barrel in the cellar.

  ‘Tell us the whole story,’ Abel commanded, putting another log on the fire, then drawing up a stool to join us at the table.

  Thomas nodded. ‘You seem to have been right about that place.’

  I sipped my wine a little disconsolately. ‘Partly,’ I agreed, ‘but not wholly. There seems nothing to connect Martin Trollope or the inn with Clement Weaver’s disappearance. Nor, indeed, with Sir Richard Mallory’s, except for the fact that he and his man, Jacob Pender, stayed there. The Duke’s men searched the house from top to bottom, but found nothing.’

  Abel Sampson shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t expect to find anything, surely? All evidence would have been destroyed.’ He was right, of course; but there had been something about Martin Trollope’s protestations of innocence on that score which, despite my disinclination to believe him, had nevertheless convinced me. And there had been no sign of any conduit leading from the cellars down to the river. The Duke’s men had searched long and hard, even calling for picks to be brought and hacking at the walls, but all to no avail. Why this seemed of such importance to me, I had no idea: there were other ways of disposing of dead bodies, after all. It was just an instinct; an intuition which had possessed me ever since I had heard the conduit mentioned by Bertha’s friend, Doll.

  Thomas Prynne replenished my glass, which by now was half-empty, and once again urged that I tell my story. Suppressing my disappointment, and the feeling that I had but half a tale to tell, I complied, adding to what the two partners already knew and ending with the discovery of Lady Anne Neville at the Crossed Hands inn.

  ‘She was being held there against her will?’ Abel Sampson asked incredulously.

  I sipped my wine carefully, determined not to drink too much, but unwilling to give my hosts offence by appearing to drink too little. I nodded.

  ‘Although,’ I added fair-mindedly, after giving the subject some thought, ‘perhaps that might be overstating the matter. She was not locked in, nor bound. The Duke of Clarence had placed her there, under the pretence of being a new cookmaid, to hide her from Duke Richard, who wants to marry her. Had she been made of sterner stuff, she could probably have walked free at any moment. I doubt very much if Martin Trollope would have dared use force to detain her.’

  ‘Then why in God’s Name didn’t she leave?’ asked Master Parsons.

  I shrugged. ‘A number of reasons, I should imagine. She is young and the Duke of Clarence is her guardian. It would be natural in her to obey him, even if she doesn’t agree with his orders. Then the Duchess of Clarence is her older sister, and the two have always, or so I understand from those who know, been very close. And the Duchess would naturally uphold her husband. Whatever her natural inclinations or desires, Lady Anne would be afraid, possibly, to flout the wishes of two so close to her, particularly as her father was an attainted rebel.’

  Master Parsons, anxious to air his knowledge, agreed with me sagely. ‘And she has been through much this past year, poor child. The Earl’s sudden defection to Queen Margaret and her cause, after a lifetime’s loyalty to King Edward; her enforced marriage to that young bully and braggart, Edward of Lancaster; his death on the field at Tewkesbury; being put, maybe against her will, into the custody of her sister and brother-in-law; all these things would have served to intimidate her.’

  Abel Sampson peered into my cup and saw that the level of my wine was still very near the top. He smote me on the shoulder. ‘Drink up, lad! Drink up! You deserve the pleasure of getting drunk, tonight of all nights!’

  His partner frowned reprovingly at him. ‘Let the lad be, Abel! So what has my lord of Gloucester done with the lady, now that he’s found her?’

  ‘Escorted her to the sanctuary of St Martin-le-Grand, where, so he told me, she will remain in safety until such time as he can win both his brothers’ consent to their marriage.’

  Abel grimaced at Thomas, and a little of the mocking tone he had used towards me earlier crept back into his voice. ‘“So he told me”!’ he mimicked, and sighed gustily. ‘What it is to be the confidant of royalty!’

  I felt the colour stain my cheeks. Thomas saw it, too, and squeezed my arm. ‘Take no notice of him, lad! Envy has always been Abel’s besetting sin. You’ve done well and deserve Duke Richard’s thanks. Did he offer to reward you?’

  I shook my head. ‘I did no more than my duty.’ But although I said nothing, I would never forget the warmth with which the Duke had pressed my hand on parting, as he prepared to leave the Crossed Hands inn to escort his cousin to sanctuary, nor the words which had accompanied the gesture.

  ‘I shall remember the service you have rendered me, Roger Chapman. If there is anything I can do for you, any assistance I can offer you at any time, you have only to send me word.’

  Lady Anne, mounted in front of him on the big white horse and wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, had also shyly murmured her gratitude and given me her hand to kiss.

  I had bowed as gallantly as I knew how. ‘Your Grace has already repaid your debt by ordering your men to search the house.’

  The Duke had pulled down the corners of his wide, thin mouth. ‘To little purpose, I’m afraid. But I shall be keeping watch on Master Trollope in the future, and if I find evidence of any murderous activities, I shall instigate all necessary action, you have my word. I shall take a personal interest in the case. That rogue is capable of anything.’

  Thomas Prynne’s voice cut across these thoughts. ‘You haven’t told us what became of Matilda Ford. After her attack on you, didn’t she return to Martin Trollope and warn him that she had been unsuccessful?’

  I took another sip of wine and felt the warmth course along my veins; liquid fire relaxing the body.

  ‘It would seem not,’ I said in answer to Thomas’s question. ‘There was no sign of her at all at the Crossed Hands when we reached there. She has simply disappeared. Gone to ground, perhaps, in case I accuse her of an attempt on my life; an attempt to which I have witnesses.’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ Thomas replied, laughing. ‘Though witnesses who are not the most respectable of citizens.’ He refilled Master Parsons’s cup before turning once more to me. ‘So what will you do now, lad? Will you be on your way in the morning, or will you remain a while longer and pursue your quest for what became of Clement Weaver?’

  I hesitated, staring into the heart of the glowing fire. For the first time since I arrived in London, I felt unsure of my purpose. This evening’s adventure had provided a climax to my first visit after which everything else seemed of little importance. In my mind I went back over the events of the past few hours.

  As soon as I had finished telling the Duke my story, he had leapt to his feet, shouting for one of his squires to dres
s him. The children’s nurse had been summoned to take them to bed, and a page sent scurrying into the ante-room to give orders for a posse of His Grace’s men to accompany him to Crooked Lane. In the middle of this whirl of activity, the Duchess of York had sat unmoving, until, finally, she had risen and placed her hands on her youngest son’s shoulders.

  ‘Richard,’ she had said gravely, ‘if this story should prove to be true, promise me that you’ll take no action against this Martin Trollope. If you do, George is bound to be implicated. Now that I have you all together again, I want nothing to come between him and Edward. The Queen’s family hate George and will stop at nothing to harm him. Please don’t give them any more reason than they have already.’

  The Duke had paused, looking deep into her eyes, then, with a sigh, he had leaned forward and kissed his mother on the forehead. ‘Very well. If I find Anne safe and well, I’ll lay no charges.’ He had added with a wry smile: ‘I’m fond of George, too, damn him!’

  And so, when we finally arrived at the Crossed Hands inn, after a ride in which I rode pillion behind my little friend rescued from the pieman, there had been no arrests, no violence, only a polite, but deadly quiet request to be conducted to the Lady Anne Neville. I had expected bluster and denials from Martin Trollope, but he must have seen from the Duke’s eyes that the game was up, because my lord was conducted upstairs at once. No one was witness to his reunion with his cousin, or heard what they said to one another, but when the Duke finally brought her down to the courtyard, her eyes shone like stars. I don’t think either before or since, I have ever seen two people more in love than Richard of Gloucester and Lady Anne Neville.

  After a few scathing words for Martin Trollope, and some words for me which I have already related, the Duke and his lady had departed for St Martin-le-Grand, but some of his men had been left behind. It was the one condition I had daringly laid down, before telling His Grace my story, that the inn premises should be thoroughly searched, particularly the cellars. I had been hoping to discover evidence of murder and robbery, and I think the Duke had been hoping so, too, because then he could have brought charges against Martin Trollope on counts not involving his brother. But there was no evidence to find, and my accusations had brought strenuous denials from the landlord. He denied with equal vigour sending Matilda Ford after me this evening to kill me, and protested that he had been unaware either of my suspicions or my intentions. And, as I said, I found myself believing his story.

  So where did that leave my quest for the truth concerning Clement Weaver? No doubt God still wished me to continue, but I was suddenly too tired to care. I felt I had done enough; and perhaps, after all, in finding the Lady Anne and restoring her to the man she loved I had fulfilled God’s purpose. Maybe Clement Weaver and Sir Richard Mallory had been merely the means to an end, and I had mistaken God’s real intention. Yes; that was it. I had achieved what I had been sent to London to do and now I could move on.

  I had a sudden yearning for the countryside; for the forests and moorland, the scattered villages and hamlets, the walled towns islanded in seas of green. I wanted to hear the lapping of streams over pebbles, smell the acrid scent of distant bonfires, see the swirling morning mists. I had enjoyed London, but I had had enough of it. I was ready to move on.

  ‘I shall be leaving in the morning,’ I said, raising my eyes from their contemplation of the flames and smiling at Thomas Prynne. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, but after tonight I shan’t be troubling you again.’

  ‘No trouble, no trouble at all!’ he exclaimed a shade too heartily, and I realized that he was probably relieved. He and Abel did too little business at the Baptist’s Head to offer free lodgings for any length of time. It was only my acquaintance with Marjorie Dyer which had made him feel obliged to take me in… The name of Marjorie Dyer brought me up short as I remembered her connection with Matilda Ford and the Crossed Hands inn. I felt the stirrings of unease again, as though God were reminding me that I had not accomplished all my mission. There was something I still had not discovered about that place, I was sure of it.

  ‘Anything wrong, lad?’ Thomas Prynne inquired, evidently noting some change in my expression.

  ‘No, no,’ I lied hurriedly, ‘nothing at all. And now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll go to bed. I shall sleep like the dead tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.’

  Thomas nodded and got up to light my candle. ‘We shall see you in the morning, then, at breakfast, to say our farewells.’

  ‘Er— Yes. Yes. Good night, Master Parsons.’

  ‘We shan’t meet again, then,’ he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand.

  ‘No… No, I don’t suppose so.’

  I caught an exchange of glances between Thomas and Abel, and realized that my hesitations had revealed my wavering purpose. They had been hoping to get rid of me; now, they could sense that I was on the verge of changing my mind. Thomas sought to help me change it back again.

  He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘As it’s your last night with us, you shall have the very best room. A fitting end to an eventful sojourn in London. What do you say, Abel? As Master Farmer still hasn’t turned up, let our chapman friend have his bed.’

  ‘By all means!’ Abel agreed, giving me a friendly smile. ‘A man who has rendered service to the Duke of Gloucester deserves only the finest this inn can offer. Furthermore, Roger shall be treated like an honoured guest. Half a loaf of white bread and a jug of our best wine for his all-night.’

  ‘Of course!’ Thomas was beaming. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? And one of us will lend you a night-shirt. Unless your pack includes such an item?’

  I shook my head ruefully. ‘When would I use it?’

  ‘True! True!’ Abel said, laughing. ‘Bring your candle and let me conduct you to bed. For one night, at least, you can sleep like a prince. That mattress is the best in London.’

  I took this with the proverbial pinch of salt, as no doubt I was meant to, and followed Abel upstairs to the room I had noted early that morning. Abel set the candle down on top of the oak cupboard, beside the one already there in the pewter holder. The halo of light illuminated the huge four-poster bed with its tester and curtains of rubbed red velvet, and was reflected in the polished metal of the mirror. The clothes-chest was now shut and I could see that its heavy lid was intricately carved with a pattern of intertwined roses. The scent of lavender and spices, however, still lingered on the air.

  As I set down my pack and stick, which I had brought up with me, Thomas came in carrying a tray bearing the promised all-night, and with a night-shirt draped over one arm. ‘Here we are, then, lad,’ he said, depositing the first on top of the cupboard and tossing the other on to the bed. ‘Sleep well. We’ll see you in the morning.’

  I thanked them both, at the same time wondering how I was going to break it to them tomorrow that I had changed my mind and intended to stay a while longer in London. Perhaps I could find other lodgings, but the prospect daunted me. Besides, I wanted to be near the Crossed Hands inn. I started to undo the laces of my tunic, wondering what had become of Matilda Ford, but I was really too weary to care. I was paying the price for the excitement of the past few hours and the exertions of the day. My whole body ached and my mind felt clogged with dreams. I looked forward to undressing; to ridding myself of the clothes I had worn for so many days; to putting on the soft, white night-shirt and tumbling into bed; to consuming my all-night at leisure before finally closing my eyes.

  But it was not to be. I allowed myself to drop back against the goose-feather pillows for a moment, my tunic still half unlaced, and I must straightway have fallen asleep. Almost at once, I was in the middle of a strange, wild dream. I was in Pudding Street, outside the whorehouse, and the cloaked figure was advancing on me, knife upraised, but I could neither move or speak. Susan and the other prostitutes were there behind me, but they were laughing and jeering, doing nothing to help. I heard one of them say: ‘The man’s a fool, a common c
hapman!’ and another one answered: ‘What can you expect?’ My assailant was nearly upon me now, and the hood fell back from the livid face. The foxy-coloured hair and pale blue eyes were Matilda Ford’s, but while I watched, petrified, she seemed to grow and the features became those of Abel Sampson. ‘We’ve been expecting you! Expecting you!’ he whispered, his voice gradually fading away…

  The scene changed abruptly, as happens in dreams. I was no longer outside Mother Bindloss’s, but sitting with Robert, Lady Mallory’s steward, in his room next to the buttery in Tuffnel Manor. ‘His passion was wine,’ Robert was saying, over and over again. ‘His passion was wine.’ And I knew that he was talking about Sir Richard Mallory. Once more, the scene dissolved, and I was lying with Bess by the banks of the Stour. I wanted to make love to her, but she wouldn’t let me. ‘Where is he?’ she kept asking. ‘Where’s Master Farmer?’

  Suddenly I was wide awake, sweating profusely in the darkness. For a moment or two my thoughts were in total confusion and I had difficulty in recalling exactly where I was. Then, as consciousness returned, everything fell simply and easily into place…

  What a fool I had been! What a blind, stupid ass not to have seen what, all along, was under my nose. The disappearance of Clement Weaver, Sir Richard Mallory and his man, and doubtless a dozen or so others, had nothing to do with the Crossed Hands inn nor with Martin Trollope. It was here, in the Baptist’s Head, that they had been robbed and murdered.

  I pulled myself up into a sitting position, my back propped against the pillows. I was trembling with fear and excitement and, above all, the shock of discovery. Reaching for the half loaf of bread beside my bed, I tore a piece off and crammed it into my mouth. In moments of stress, I am always hungry. I glanced around me. The candle had gone out, and all the furniture of the room had assumed nocturnally gigantic proportions. It was late and everything was still. Once, an owl hooted, its desolate cry echoing weirdly over the roof-tops. Somewhere in the distance a horse snorted and stamped, one man called to another, a dog barked. Then silence drifted back, more profound than before. Wisps of smoke from the candle still hung about the room, uneasy spirits in search of a home.