Kate Sedley - Wheel of Fate

He eyed me curiously. ‘No, nor did I ask.’ He glanced ruefully at the door at the back of the shop through which Naomi had just that moment flounced, oozing enough ill-will to make any man wince in anticipation of the tirade to come. ‘What will you do? Will you confront Mistress Rokeswood with the theft? I shall certainly be wary of her in future.’

‘I don’t know,’ I answered cautiously. ‘I must think it over. It might be awkward to accuse her while I’m still a guest at the Arbour.’ I saw that he was about to dispute this argument and went on hurriedly, ‘I’ll relieve you of my presence. Thank you again for being so understanding. If ever I can do anything for you. .’

‘As a matter of fact, there is,’ he said, smiling faintly. He took a small box from the shelf behind him. ‘This is Father Berowne’s extract of feverfew. He likes to keep some handy for making poultices when he hurts himself working in that garden of his. If you’re passing his door, will you give it to him?’

‘Of course,’ I answered, putting the little box into my pouch, glad that there was something I could do in exchange for his unconditional acceptance of my story. He came out from behind the counter and moved towards the shop door to open it for me, but I stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I recall you saying that extract of feverfew is poisonous. Could it be administered in a drink?’

For a moment, he looked startled, then laughed. ‘It would be difficult. In that form — ’ he nodded at my pouch — ‘it’s very bitter. An infusion of the flowers and leaves can be used to alleviate headaches and ease women’s monthly pains, and mixed with wine and honey they are a good cure for melancholy and dizziness. But when the plant’s juices are concentrated, the result, as I say, is bitter.’

‘Is there any way in which the taste might be disguised?’ It was my turn to laugh at his anxious expression. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not planning to do away with anyone.’

He looked shamefaced. ‘No, I didn’t really think you were.’ He considered for a moment. ‘I suppose if you smeared a little of the extract around the rim of a beaker, the drinker might not notice it. I daresay it wouldn’t prove fatal, but it could make a person ill.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been extremely patient and most understanding.’ I glanced towards the opposite door. ‘I hope you make your peace with Mistress Naomi and that she won’t make you suffer too greatly.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll do that, but it will cost me another ring I don’t doubt. Women!’ he added. ‘But we can’t do without them, I suppose.’

I walked back along Bucklersbury deep in thought. The muckrakers were by now busy at work on the central drain and the night-soil removers, with their noisome little carts, were going from house to house emptying the privies, while several roisterers, already drunk even at this early hour of the morning, rolled out of the Voyager, something that would never have happened in Reynold Makepeace’s day. But I hardly noticed any of these things — or if I did, paid them no heed — being deep in thought.

Why would Arbella Rokeswood be in need of money? And another thought intruded before I had formed the answer to my question. Adam had recollected that the person he had overheard talking to Celia in the Arbour garden had been a woman. Could it possibly have been Arbella? Almost at once, I realized that if that were so, then it would explain why Celia had failed to inform anyone else that she was going out. She would naturally have assumed that the housekeeper would tell them where she was. And she had most probably gone at Arbella’s instigation.

Having by this time reached the Great Conduit again, I paused for a drink and to splash my face and hands with water. Feeling somewhat refreshed, I returned to my first question: why was Arbella suddenly in need of money? And what for? The answer came with the memory of something I had said to Oswald; that it must cost a great deal to hire bravos willing to kill to order. And immediately I remembered those other two thefts: the pyx taken from St Botolph’s Church and the stealing of the tailor’s savings from his cottage near the Bedlam. Father Berowne had said that the pyx was stolen over a year ago and Peter Coleman had said much the same thing about his gold. And in the autumn of the preceding year, Martin Godslove had been set upon, apparently by street robbers, and murdered, while within the past few months or so, Sybilla had been injured by falling masonry from the Bishop’s Gate wall.

I remembered something else as well; three things, in fact. The first was how Arbella had kept urging me to return to Bristol with Adela and the children; the second was her reluctance to tell me the tailor’s name and address until bullied into it by Oswald; and finally, I recalled Arbella’s appearance at the church the day before yesterday while I was talking to the priest. My initial impression had been that she was flustered by the sight of me. But with her usual self-possession, she had quickly recovered her countenance and allayed any curiosity on my part by announcing she had come to confession.

I realized that I was walking up Bishop’s Gate Street Within without any clear idea of how I got there. It was quiet today, quieter than it had been at any time since my arrival a fortnight previously; although I had to admit that that St George’s Day now seemed more like two months than a mere two weeks ago. And for one of those two weeks I had been ill, thanks to an excess of Father Berowne’s elderflower wine. .

Or had that really been the cause? I drew out the little box from my pouch and contemplated it, another suspicion taking shape in my mind. Yet more memories surfaced; one in particular: the tailor’s story of how he had volunteered to head a subscription to replace the stolen pyx during one of Father Berowne’s visits to him. The offer alone would have implied that he had money put by, and although he had not actually said as much, I suspected it to be more than possible that he had confided further in the priest, even going so far as to disclose his treasure’s hiding place. It would have been the natural thing to do, and the tailor had been emphatic that nothing had been disturbed during the robbery. Whoever took the money seemed to have known exactly where to look for it. .

I paused, leaning against the wall of Crosby’s Place, biting my lower lip between my teeth and trying to discern where my galloping thoughts were leading me. Were they really saying what they appeared to be saying? That Father Berowne was a murderer and a thief? That he was in reality Henry Maynard? But even as I told myself that the idea was ridiculous, I could hear in my imagination the priest’s Irish lilt and his hasty denial that he had ever seen that country. His explanation had been that he must have picked it up from his father, who came from around Waterford, and I had said. . What had I said? I struggled to remember. I had said that the slavers used the coves and inlets around the port to land their illegal cargoes, and he had known instantly what I meant. There had been no need to explain to him the details of Bristol’s infamous trade with their southern Irish neighbours.

Arbella Rokeswood and Father Berowne, could they truly be Lucy and Henry Maynard? Charity Godslove’s death by mushroom poisoning could so easily have been arranged by the housekeeper, as could the mysterious illness that had so nearly disposed of Clemency. And my own indisposition after toping with the priest might well have been caused not by too much elderflower wine, as I and everyone else had assumed, but by something administered either in the drink itself or smeared on the cup.

The more I considered the idea the more plausible it seemed, and the less I was able to reject it. And if money was again becoming an object with the pair, it must surely mean that they had another plan afoot to dispose of one of the three remaining siblings; a plan which entailed the assistance of someone other than themselves, as in the deaths of Martin Godslove and Reynold Makepeace and the attempted murder of Sybilla. And what of Julian Makepeace? If it had been considered a part of the couple’s revenge to dispose of not just the culprits, but anyone else remotely connected with them, then the apothecary’s life might also be in danger. I have often heard people carelessly use the expression ‘my blood ran cold’, but now I knew what was meant in good earnest. I found I was shivering convulsively in spite of a bright sunny morning.