Kate Sedley - Wheel of Fate

I heaved myself away from the garden wall of Crosby’s Place just as the gates were opened and two young men in the Gloucester livery rode out, carrying on a loud-voiced conversation from which anyone within earshot might gather that they were bound for Baynard’s Castle with an important message for the duke, and also, in the next day or two, that the young king was to be moved to the royal apartments in the Tower. At any other time, such a titbit of news might have caught my attention, but at that moment, I was interested in no one’s affairs but my own. I walked on slowly, passing under the Bishop’s Gate — merely giving an unresponsive grunt in reply to the gatekeeper’s attempt at conversation — wondering what it was best for me to do. Obviously, I must impart my suspicions to Oswald and his sisters as soon as possible, but would they believe me? And if they didn’t, would they be right to be sceptical? Would it not be better for me to try to discover more definite proof of my suspicions before speaking to them?

It was then I became conscious of the fact that I was still clutching the box of feverfew extract in one hand. I had promised Julian Makepeace to deliver it to Father Berowne on my way back to the Arbour, a good enough excuse, if one was needed, for calling on the priest. Of course, he could well be from home, visiting a member of his flock. .

I experienced another jolt to the pit of my stomach as yet a further memory obtruded. On the day of Celia’s disappearance, when I had questioned Father Berowne, he claimed to have heard the children playing in the garden that morning because he had been on his way to visit one of his parishioners who lived further up the track. I remembered his exact words: ‘A poor, childless widow who has been unwell.’ Yet when Adela and I had gone for our stroll two evenings since, we had come across no other dwelling anywhere near the Arbour in spite of having walked some considerable distance. So what had he been doing in the vicinity of the house? Had he, indeed, even been there? If not, why had he lied? No one had accused him of anything. It was simply one of those unnecessary embellishments of an untruth provoked by a guilty conscience.

This last recollection convinced me even more that my theory was correct: Father Berowne and Henry Maynard were one and the same person. And if only Oswald and his sisters had seen fit to confide in me from the very beginning, I might have reached this conclusion much sooner. I could see why they hadn’t, of course. Selling two innocent children to the Irish slavers was not the sort of admission anyone wanted to make, not even to themselves, and most certainly not to a stranger. Only her secret fear had forced Clemency to speak out in the end.

As I approached St Botolph’s everything lay quiet and still in the morning sun. There seemed to be no sign of life anywhere, although the church door stood open, inviting all those who wished to communicate with God to enter. I went in briefly to return thanks for the solution that I trusted was the answer to my prayers and to beg pardon for doubting that I should receive it. As I was leaving, I sent up a brief admonition to God not to desert me, just in case I should prove to be in any danger.

I knocked on the door of the priest’s house, but there was no reply. I tried twice more, but each time was greeted with silence, so I strolled round to the side of the cottage and the small garden where Father Berowne — for until I was certain of his true identity, I could not think of him by any other name — dug so diligently to produce something green from the stony soil. At the back, out of sight of the road, two pigs grunted at me from their sty, big, ugly brutes that stank to high heaven, while a goat, tethered to its post, regarded me with a pair of evil yellow eyes. An attempt had been made to grow a few herbs, and the vegetables I had noticed on my first visit appeared, if anything, even sallower and more drooping than before. But the thing which really drew my eyes was a patch of freshly turned earth some six feet by three. Just the right size for a grave. .

A hand fell on my shoulder and I jumped. A soft laugh sounded in my ear. ‘Admiring my new seed bed, Master Chapman?’

I spun round. The priest was standing there, smiling at me. I hesitated for a long moment before deciding to take the plunge.

‘Am I addressing Henry Maynard?’ I asked him.

‘I told you I thought he was growing suspicious,’ a second voice said, and there was Arbella standing behind the priest. She had come so quietly round the corner of the cottage that I had not even noticed her approach.

‘Mistress Rokeswood.’ I gave a slight bow in acknowledgement of her presence. ‘Or should I say Mistress Maynard? Mistress Lucy Maynard?’

She returned my greeting with an inclination of her head. ‘You may call me Mistress Rokeswood. It is indeed my name. My married name. And I was christened Lucy Arbella.’

This shook me a little. ‘But you don’t deny that you are Lucy Maynard, Tabitha Maynard’s daughter?’

She smiled. ‘No, I don’t deny it. How long have you known?’

‘Not known ,’ I corrected her, ‘and not as long as you seem to think. I guessed after Julian Makepeace told me this morning that you were the person who had sold him the ring I bought for Adela; the ring that was supposed to have been stolen from the Arbour by a chance thief.’

At that, her brother jerked his head round to look at her. ‘You fool!’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘What possessed you to get rid of it to someone so well known to the family as the apothecary? Why? When there are so many fences in London who would have bought it from you?’

‘For half its true value,’ she flashed back, adding vindictively, ‘And what mistakes have you made, Henry, that Master Chapman should suspect the truth about you?’

I was happy to enumerate them. I wasn’t sure what the couple’s next move would be and calculated that if I could get them quarrelling, I might be able to make my escape before they realized what I was about. Unfortunately, Father Berowne — or Henry Maynard as I must now think of him — was not so easily duped and, without waiting for me to finish speaking, moved suddenly and speedily to stand behind me, producing from the sleeve of his gown a long-bladed and very sharp knife. I could feel the point sticking into my back through the thickness of my shirt and tunic.

‘Just walk slowly into the house, Master Chapman,’ he said politely, but with such an undertone of menace that I shivered involuntarily. He chuckled softly. ‘Oh yes, you’re right to be afraid. I shan’t hesitate to use this. I’m inured to killing by now. One more death amongst the rest won’t worry me.’

I didn’t doubt it. Any hopes I might have entertained of making a sudden run for it, were frustrated by Arbella walking immediately ahead of me, so that anyone observing us from the roadway might have been puzzled at seeing the three of us in single file. Except, of course, there wasn’t anyone about. In my experience there never is when you want them.

We entered the cottage and the priest motioned me to sit down at the table on the side farthest from the door. He sat opposite, the knife laid ostentatiously between us and his right hand resting suggestively on the hilt. Arbella, having carefully shut the door behind her, sat where she could see us both.

‘Where’s Celia?’ I demanded abruptly. ‘What have you done with her?’

Henry smiled. ‘What do you suppose? You’ve just been looking at her grave.’

I stared at him. Even now I knew the truth, he didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. With his short, slight build, his innocent blue eyes, his curly hair and, above all, the youthful air that clung about him, belying the fact that he must be approaching forty, it was almost impossible to believe him guilty of the various crimes I knew must lie at his door.