Kate Sedley - The Plymouth Cloak

I gave them all the time of day as I passed beneath the archway.

I followed the path down through the woods to the village. I needed to be on my own; to try to get my teeming thoughts into some sort of order. But the more they chased one another round inside my head, the more I became convinced that Janet was right and that Jeremiah Fletcher was the murderer. He was a Tudor agent, that House being the one faint hope the Lancastrians now had of regaining power, even though it was through a bastard line which had been barred by King Henry IV from ever ascending the throne of England. But although that fact now seemed fairly settled in my mind, I was still left with the mystery of why Philip had escaped from our room last night. Who was it he had gone to meet, if not Isobel Warden? And the more I went over our talk together, the more certain I felt that she had told the truth; that the amazement she had shown at my suggestion of a tryst had been genuine; that her reading of Philip's character was sounder than mine.

I turned aside from the path to the river bank, to the spot where, last night, I had knelt beside Philip's body, and where, this morning, the sawyer had found him. The long grasses were still flattened, although beginning here and there to spring upright, and there were dark patches of blood on the ground. I made a methodical search of the surrounding area and, after some minutes, came to the conclusion that Philip had been struck down where he had fallen. There were no signs that I could see of the body having been dragged to its resting-place and no traces of blood elsewhere to indicate that that was where he had been killed. Furthermore, I suspected that if that had happened, Philip would have been turned on to his back, for it is easier in my experience to drag a man face-up rather than the other way around.

There were indications that the grass had been trampled by more than one person, but some of the damage could be accounted for by my own tracks, and it was difficult to say whether two or three people had been there before me. If Jeremiah Fletcher were the assassin, then someone else must surely have been present as well, for I held by my conviction that Philip would never have been foolish enough to be lured away from the house by any kind of message without first checking to see if it were false. And the only other person beside Isobel Warden whom he might have crept away to meet was Silas Bywater.

I repaired to the inn, partly to ease my aching throat and partly to consider this theory in comfort. As I had guessed, the ale-room was almost empty at that time in the afternoon, when most people were about their business on the manor.

There was only one other man seated on a bench under the window, his thin legs stretched out before him, his head resting against the wall at his back. A mazer of ale, half drunk, stood on the table in front of him, his body was slack, his eyes drowsily closed, although now and then the lids lifted slightly as he cast a glance in my direction. I sat down on the other side of the room and ignored him.

The landlord was nowhere to be seen, but the determined, muscular-looking woman who attended to my needs could only be his wife, and I decided he might have good reason to be wary of her. When she had served me, I too leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, but not to sleep. In my mind's eye I summoned up the image of Silas Bywater and considered him.

If he had indeed sent a message to Philip, when could Philip have received it without my knowledge? The answer was the same as before; yesterday morning after breakfast, when I was out searching for the man Philip was supposed to have seen from the bedchamber window, and when I presumed him to be asleep on his bed. So, having settled that, I came to my second question. Why had Silas summoned him to a secret meeting? Because, as he had hinted to me on more than one occasion, he knew something to Philip's detriment and was intending to threaten him with it in order to get the money he felt was his due. But why had Philip agreed to the assignation? There was, to my mind, and as I had told myself earlier, only one answer. The time, the place, could both have been at Philip's suggestion with one end in view; to rid himself of a man who had suddenly reappeared in his life and who threatened to become an embarrassment. Philip had set out to murder Silas, but had himself been killed instead, either by his intended victim or by Jeremiah Fletcher, who had accidentally discovered them together.

Before I had time to pursue this argument any further, to find out its flaws or lack of them, my thoughts were interrupted by my fellow drinker.

'Here's a to-do then, for the country. Though it's too far away to worry we, I reckon.' I realized he was referring to the Earl of Oxford's invasion and not the event uppermost in my mind, Philip's murder, which suggested that he was a stranger in the village. I nodded, loath to give him more encouragement, but he went on, undeterred: 'The King'll sort it out, no doubt.'

'No doubt,' I said and closed my eyes again, willing him to do the same.

"E's a good King, is Edward. Better for the likes o' we than poor old Henry, and 'e's got 'is brothers t'back 'im up.

Leastways, 'e's got Duke Richard. Don't know as I reckon much to t'other 'un.' Having disposed thus unceremoniously of George of Clarence, he asked: 'You from the village?' Cornered, I opened my eyes and answered grudgingly: 'No. Just passing through. I'm lodging for a day or so at the manor house. I have friends there among the servants.' This was no lie. I could certainly claim Janet Overy as a friend.

The information seemed to intrigue him. 'So you know 'em up there, do you? You'll be missing the fun.' I stared at the man stupidly. 'Fun?' I repeated.

He drank off the rest of his ale, then nodded. 'Aye. I come up from St Germans this morning with a load of hay for Sir Peveril Trenowth's stables. I'm a carter by trade,' he added. 'But a fellow stopped me just short o' the village and offered me this if I'd let 'im take my place for an hour or so.' He plunged his hand into the pouch at his belt and proudly produced a gold farthing, as the quarter noble used to be called in those days. 'Said 'e was a friend of Alwyn the steward and wanted to play a trick on 'im. Said Alwyn'd bet 'im two angels that 'e couldn't get into the house without 'im knowing.' The man put the coin away again and looked at me, a little shamefaced. 'Not sure I altogether believed 'im, but I don't get the chance o' many gold coins in my job, an' besides, 'e was well-spoken and well-dressed.' It was clear that the carter had allowed his greed to override his better judgement. 'A gentleman, you might say, so quite likely 'is story was true after all. 'E's quite likely to be a friend of this Alwyn. 'E borrowed my hat, as well, so's 'e could hide 'is face. "You'll want to take off that tunic, too," I tells 'ira. "No one'll think you're a carter dressed like that." So 'e did, but I don't think 'e quite trusted me. Took it with 'im, under the bales of fodder.'

I lumbered to my feet, almost overtuming the table in my hurry. 'A thin-faced man?' I asked. 'Narrow features?' "Es. You could say that. A bit weasely maybe, now you come to mention it. But a gentleman, for all that,' he insisted defiantly.

'That doesn't make him any less a rogue,' I snapped, yelling for the landlord's wife so that I could pay my shot.

'You fool! Do you think there aren't evil men among our betters, just as there are among the lower orders?' The carter had grown pale and his hand shook as he put his mazer down on the table. 'You know this man?' he asked apprehensively.

I nodded, turning to pay the goodwife of the inn, who had arrived breathing fire and slaughter at the imperiousness of my summons. I gave her over the odds to placate her. As I made for the door, I paused to lay my hand reassuringly on the carter's arm.