Death and the Chapman

by Kate Sedley

  I shivered violently. My mouth was dry and I had a job to swallow the bread. My hand went out for the jug of wine and the cup, then remained suspended in mid-air, hovering over the tray. I remembered the deep sleep into which I had fallen the previous evening, and realized for the first time that I might not have been drunk, but drugged. I recalled how disconcerted Thomas Prynne had been to find me up and awake in the middle of the night. He had not counted on the strength of my general constitution.

  I withdrew my hand and sat up even straighter on the bed, trying to arrange my thoughts in order.

  Chapter Nineteen

  First and foremost, there had only been Thomas Prynne’s word that Clement Weaver had never arrived at the Baptist’s Head. And because Clement had last been seen outside the Crossed Hands inn, everyone, including myself, had allowed themselves to believe that his disappearance might have something to do with the latter. Whereas the truth was that he must have walked down to the Baptist’s Head to be greeted with affection by the murderous pair. He trusted them. Thomas was his father’s friend; the boyhood friend, who had grown up to be deeply envious of the other man’s success. So envious, that he had moved from Bristol to London in an attempt to make his own fortune.

  Thomas had bought the Baptist’s Head; but its location and the fact that it was overshadowed by the rival inn further up the lane had meant only very small profit for a lot of hard work. I had no means of knowing when and how he had met up with Abel Sampson, but I guessed that like had called to like. They were both ambitious, greedy and unscrupulous men. Together they had devised a scheme to murder and rob their wealthiest clients. Not all of them, of course, that would have been impossible; just those travelling alone or with a single servant. Maybe they had informants in various parts of the country, like Marjorie Dyer in Bristol, whose job it was to recommend the Baptist’s Head to any such people. She must have forewarned Thomas that, on this particular occasion, Clement Weaver was carrying an unusually large sum of money.

  But Marjorie sent her letters to Matilda Ford at the Crossed Hands inn. That, of course, was a precaution in case anyone ever became suspicious. Matilda Ford certainly worked at the rival inn, but the first time I had seen her, she had reminded me of someone. And that someone was Abel Sampson. I wondered how I could have been so blind as not to see it. Hadn’t I said to myself that she was nothing like Marjorie Dyer? And I had only just left Abel at the Baptist’s Head. The resemblance – the sandy hair, the height, the thinness – had been staring me in the face, yet I had been unable to recognize it. I had no means of knowing what their relationship actually was, but guessed it was probably that of brother and sister. Perhaps Abel himself had once worked at the Crossed Hands inn and that was how Thomas had met him.

  I went over once again in my mind the circumstances of Clement Weaver’s disappearance. His arrival alone and on foot must have seemed like a gift from heaven to Thomas and Abel: they had only Clement to get rid of. The disposal of their victims’ horses must always have presented a problem, but no doubt there were many shady dealers in London, and the sale of the animals had added more money to their coffers.

  In the case of Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender, the horses had remained at the Crossed Hands, to be claimed and taken away later by Sir Gregory Bullivant. I could not know for certain, but I had no doubt now in my mind that Sir Richard had been lured to the Baptist’s Head after a ‘chance’ meeting with either Thomas or Abel, during which he had been promised the finest wine he had ever tasted. Matilda would have informed the two men of Sir Richard’s presence, told them that he was a bird worth the plucking, and that, in Robert the steward’s words to me, he would ‘travel miles, brave all hazards, to taste a recommended vintage’. The maid at the Crossed Hands had told Sir Gregory Bullivant that she had seen Sir Richard and his servant apparently arguing in the inn courtyard. At that point their saddle-bags had been packed and they were ready to leave, so it was likely that Jacob Pender had been protesting against delay, but his master had overruled him. They had walked the short distance to the Baptist’s Head – and to their deaths…

  Suddenly I could no longer endure the darkness and, leaning over, I fumbled for the tinder-box on the table beside me. The palms of my hands were sweating so much that I had great difficulty in coaxing a spark from it, but eventually I managed to light one of the candles. The flickering light cast distorted shadows which sent grotesque patterns leaping across the walls and ceiling. In my mind’s eye I could see the two unsuspecting men being led down the ale-room steps and into the cellar.

  I lay back on the pillows, shivering. I remembered seeing Abel Sampson for the first time yesterday morning and thinking he was like Richard of Gloucester when he smiled. But then, to repeat myself, in those days I was a poor judge of character. I remembered, too, his words on seeing me. ‘Is this the man we’ve been expecting?’ And Thomas’s reply: ‘No, no! I’m sure I told you that Master Farmer would not be arriving until late this evening.’ I recalled now the emphasis he had laid on the name and realized its significance. Months ago, Marjorie Dyer must have warned them of my involvement in Alfred Weaver’s affairs; to be on the lookout for a chapman who might start asking awkward questions. I was indeed the man Abel had been expecting; although they must both have thought by then that I had changed my mind, or forgotten my commission, and was not coming.

  Another memory stirred; something which at the time had troubled me, but which had been pushed to the back of my mind and its significance lost. Abel had immediately addressed me as Roger. I had told Thomas my name when I had told him my story, but there was no way his partner could have known, unless he had already been informed of it by Marjorie Dyer. But what of Matilda Ford’s attack on me this afternoon? If Martin Trollope had not sent her, then who had? The answer, of course, was obvious now that I knew. Either Abel or Thomas had hurried to the Crossed Hands inn as soon as I had left for Baynard’s Castle, routed her out from the kitchen and told her to follow and dispose of me if she could. But why? Answer: because although they had no particular wish to protect Martin Trollope, they did not want Richard of Gloucester’s attention drawn to Crooked Lane and the tale of mysterious disappearances poured into his ear. And where was Matilda Ford now? Probably lurking somewhere on the premises. She dared not return to the Crossed Hands in case I had laid information against her.

  My blood ran cold at the thought. I sat petrified, an animal scenting danger and too terrified to move. I pictured her creeping up the stairs, one of Thomas’s wicked-looking kitchen knives poised and ready… What a crass fool I was! If I had not let Abel and Thomas see so plainly that I had changed my mind about moving on tomorrow morning, I should most likely have escaped unharmed.

  Without having any recollection of moving, I found myself on my feet, trying to lace up my tunic with unsteady fingers. I must go now, at once, while Master Parsons was still up and about. I must make any excuse and leave. Perhaps if I went to St Paul’s I could find Philip Lamprey and a makeshift bed in the cloisters. I had my cloak around me, my pack and stick in one hand, the other on the door latch, when I knew with a flash of blinding certainty that I could not do it. I could not leave Thomas Prynne and Abel Sampson to their murderous pursuits; I could not let other unsuspecting flies walk into their evil web. I had to find proof of what they were up to. And when better than now? The night after Master Farmer had, according to them, failed to arrive.

  And I knew then, with complete certainty, that of course he had arrived while I, and no doubt Master Parsons, too, lay upstairs in a drugged sleep. He had been killed and his body disposed of sometime during the small hours before Matins and Lauds, when force of habit had dragged me awake. But surely they could not have rid themselves of everything so soon. Some trace of the unfortunate man must remain somewhere. But where? And there again, I did not have to seek far for an answer. The cellar was the only safe place for the murders; and undoubtedly the opening to the conduit, spoken of by the ragwoman, Doll, cou
ld be found there. It made far more sense than looking for it at the Crossed Hands inn: the Baptist’s Head was so much closer to the wharfside and river.

  Another question posed itself. If my theory were right and Master Farmer had arrived, what had happened to his horse? Then I remembered. I was sure I had heard two horses while I was in the privy last night. Later, Thomas Prynne had convinced me that I had heard only one, and at the time I had had no reason to disbelieve him. It explained, too, why the back door to the inn had been unbolted. Matilda Ford had been let in that way and it had been left unlocked until after her departure. Abel, too, had possibly been out of doors, in which case I had locked him out. The thought gave me a grim satisfaction.

  My elation, however, was brief and immediately replaced by a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. What was I doing, contemplating, even for a moment, staying on at the Baptist’s Head? I was deliberately putting myself in untold danger. For I had no doubt that the wine was drugged, nor that Thomas and Abel intended to dispose of me while I slept. I had become too much of a threat to their peace of mind. Only my immediate departure could save me now.

  Besides, putting my own life in jeopardy had never been part of my bargain with God, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, He did not seem to be listening.

  ‘I won’t do it,’ I muttered fiercely. ‘You have no right to ask it of me. You’re omnipotent. You find a way of dealing with Thomas and Abel.’

  God remained silent, but I could tell that He wasn’t pleased. Words like ‘coward’ and ‘lily-livered’ floated in and out of my mind. I thought of Alfred Weaver and Lady Mallory and my promises to them to find out the truth. Well, I had found out the truth, but unless I did something about it, I could never tell them. My knees were shaking, my mouth was dry and I gripped my pack and stick more firmly. My hand tightened on the latch… But I couldn’t lift it. Bitterly I recognized the fact that, as always, God was going to get His own way.

  I replaced pack and stick on the floor and took off my cloak, forcing my reluctant body to lie down on the bed again. There was an hour or two yet before everyone retired to bed and the inn was quiet. Until then, I could not carry out my purpose. I blew out the candle and lay there in the darkness, wondering how I was going to while away the time. I supposed I could always pray…

  Against all expectations, I slept.

  * * *

  I awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep, the sweat pouring down my body. How could I possibly have dozed off when I knew my life to be in danger? I had heard stories of condemned men sleeping soundly the night before their execution, but had never believed them. Now I knew that exhaustion of body can sometimes overcome even fear.

  I sat up, straining my ears. I had no idea how long I had been asleep, but the inn was very quiet. I slid off the bed, went over to the door and opened it a crack. All was silent, except for the noise of a stertorous, rhythmic snoring. I judged this to be coming from Master Parsons’s room, and knew with a sudden, horrible certainty that his supper wine had been drugged. Nothing would rouse him to come to my assistance. Moreover, he was expecting me to leave in the morning. Abel and Thomas would simply tell him that I had gone earlier than expected.

  Softly I closed the door and leaned against the wall, trying to stop my teeth chattering. I reminded God tersely that He had got me into this mess and that it was up to Him to get me out of it. He reminded me that he had given me strength, health and a thinking brain and that it was up to me to use these precious assets. I abandoned the argument. Why could I never learn that it was useless trying to burden God with my responsibilities?

  After a moment or two, when I was more in control of my body, I began to edge towards the door again. I must get out of the room before Abel or Thomas or Matilda Ford came to complete their handiwork. I didn’t think they would hurry. They thought me drugged, and would wait until they were certain that Master Parsons was soundly sleeping. I had one advantage: neither Thomas nor Abel were aware that I knew the truth. They still thought that my suspicions were centred on the Crossed Hands inn. I stooped and picked up the stout, thick stick which had supported me across so many miles. Now, I needed it for a different purpose. As silently as possible, I again lifted the latch.

  The landing was in darkness except for the light which filtered through the window shutters. Cautiously I stepped across and opened them a fraction, peering down into the street. Tonight, however, there was no sign of life; no cloaked and hooded figure making her way along Crooked Lane. Closing the shutters once more, I returned to the head of the stairs and listened intently for any sound of voices from below. I could hear nothing and proceeded to tiptoe downstairs in my stockinged feet, stepping carefully so as to avoid any tell-tale creaking. Each moment I expected to be challenged by one or the other of the villainous trio.

  At the bottom of the flight I waited, my back pressed against the wall, my ears straining for the slightest sound, my cudgel gripped securely in my right hand, ready for instant action. Still there was only silence and a complete absence of light. Had Thomas and Abel gone upstairs to bed, keeping vigil in their respective chambers until such time as they were sure the drugged wine had taken effect? Or were they still down here, ready to waylay me in the darkness? My heart was pounding so fast, I felt as if I must choke. I took a deep breath, trying to stop its frantic beating.

  ‘Put yourself in their place,’ said a voice inside my head, and I obeyed it. Why should they wait downstairs for me, when they had no idea that I was likely to leave my room? When they believed me safely tucked up in the four-poster, fast asleep, drugged by the wine? I must force myself to remember that they had no reason to know that I had tumbled to their murderous little game. If they were still up, they would be working in the kitchen, preparing the bread for tomorrow’s early morning baking. But there was no light and no noise from that quarter.

  I wondered what o’clock it was, and cursed myself for having fallen asleep. If they had come for me then…! My blood ran cold at the thought. But they had had to wait for Master Parsons to retire, to drink his drugged wine and for the wine to take effect. And now it had. Surely they could hear that as well as I. It could not be long now before they went to my room and discovered that I was not there. I must be swift if I wanted to search the cellar. I was wasting precious minutes while I stood here imagining Thomas and Abel lying in ambush for me. I had proved to myself that there was no reason why they should be. Stealthily I crept into the ale-room.

  All was quiet here, too. My eyes were now completely accustomed to the darkness, and I made my way between the benches and tables without difficulty. I knelt on the floor by the far wall and felt around, among the sand and sawdust, for the heavy metal ring which, when pulled, opened the trapdoor to the cellar. I found it easily, and, laying my stick down, got to my feet, stooped, clasped the ring in both hands and began to tug. Sweat, however, had made my hands slippery and for several moments I could get no purchase on it. Cursing silently, I wiped my greasy palms against my tunic, then tried again. This time the stone slab rose almost too swiftly and I had to let go the ring to catch it against my body, in order to prevent it thudding on to the floor. When I had lowered it gently to the ground, I peered down the flight of steps leading to the cellar.

  At once I realized that I should need a light, and again called myself all the names I could lay my tongue to for not having foreseen such a contingency. I should have brought one of the candles from the bedchamber with me. Now, I would have to go and find one in the kitchen. Every moment wasted made my discovery more likely, but there was nothing I could do about it. I should find nothing in the cellar in pitch blackness.

  I made my way back to the passageway, my ears pricked for the sound of any movement above stairs; but still all I could hear was the noise of Master Parsons’s snoring. It was probably not as late as I thought, and my sleep had been briefer than I imagined. The small hours, the dead time of night, were best for murder… I shuddered and cast a longing look
at the inn’s front door, clearly silhouetted at one end of the passage. I could go now; make my escape while I had the opportunity. I even took a step towards the door before conscience halted me in my tracks. If I went, I could prove nothing. There were only my suspicions against Thomas and Abel’s denials; and I had no doubt that within hours of discovering I had gone, the inn would be swept clean of the last trace of anything damning. And although my allegations might make the authorities keep their eye on the Baptist’s Head for a while, they would soon tire when nothing further happened. And Thomas and Abel would make sure of that for as long as was necessary.

  Reluctantly I turned in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, and at first I thought it was still in darkness. But as I approached the open door, I could see a faint glow. Hardly daring to breathe, I flattened myself against the wall, my hand tightening unconsciously around my cudgel. After a moment or two I could hear slight movements. As cautiously as I dared, I peered round the jamb of the doorway. The source of the illumination was a rush-light, which explained its dim uncertainty, but it was sufficient for me to make out a woman sitting at the table, eating.

  Once more, I leaned against the wall, trying to quieten my thumping heart. The woman could only be Matilda Ford, and my fears that she had taken refuge in the inn had been only too well-founded.

  She must have been somewhere around when I crept downstairs, but fortunately she had not seen me. If she had been aware of my presence, she would surely not be sat in the kitchen, fortifying herself for the night’s work which lay ahead of her… Not for the first, nor the last, time since supper, I found that I was shaking.