Kate Sedley - The Midsummer Rose

Albany stopped to draw breath. ‘Let me guess,’ I interrupted him. ‘You and Mistress Alefounder carried Robin up into the street and left his body in Jewry Lane, where it was found by the Watch patrol, just after midnight.’

The duke shrugged. ‘What else could we do? I’m ignorant of the other details. But, wait a moment!’ He clapped a hand to his forehead in the manner of one who had just recollected something vital. ‘I forgot to tell you that while I was waiting for Mistress Alefounder to arrive, I naturally shut myself in here, out of sight. But, suddenly, I heard a woman’s scream. Naturally, I thought it was Elizabeth, but when no one came to the peephole to speak to me, I grew suspicious and stayed where I was. Which was just as well, as it turned out, because Mistress Alefounder later assured me that, whoever it might have been, it wasn’t her.’

‘And was she worried about this stranger who had accidentally stumbled across her brother’s body?’

Albany frowned.

‘Now you mention it,’ he said slowly, ‘no, she wasn’t. It didn’t strike me at the time, there was too much else to think about … How very odd.’

‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘Perhaps she knew, or guessed, who it was. How soon after you found Master Avenel’s body did you hear this scream?’

His frown deepened. ‘Not very long.’ He pondered the matter for a moment or so, then glanced sharply in my direction. ‘I can see by your face that that is the answer you wanted. That it means something to you. Am I right?’

‘Maybe,’ I agreed, as pieces of the puzzle began falling into place, and I realized what it was that had been troubling me ever since this morning and my visit to Saint Giles’s. ‘You say the murder took place sometime during the evening, after you’d eaten your supper?’

The duke pursed his lips. ‘Two, maybe three hours afterwards, as far as I was able to judge. Maybe longer. I tell you, time is not itself down here. Now, are you satisfied? Has what I’ve told you helped in any way to disprove the charge of Robin Avenel’s murder that has been laid against your friend?’ I nodded and he again clapped his hands, like a child who had been given a sweetmeat. ‘Then en avant, mon brave ! There is nothing more to wait for. Fetch my ring from wherever you have hidden it and take it to this Irish slave master of yours.’ He clicked his tongue mockingly. ‘For a respectable man, Roger, my friend, you know some very strange people.’

‘Isn’t that the pot calling the skillet black?’ I retorted, sliding off the bed. I indicated the apparently solid wall. ‘You’d better let me out. But before I go, I’d be interested to know what it is you’ve done to be branded a traitor by your brother.’

His face lost its recent good humour and assumed a sullen expression. I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. But then, suddenly, he began to laugh, displaying an upper row of surprisingly healthy teeth, with a single blackened one to spoil their general appearance.

‘My younger brother, Mar, and I were urging James to resume hostilities against England; to break the peace and start raiding across the border once again. He refused, so we began to plot with some of the other lords to bring about his downfall. Unfortunately, one of the bastards betrayed us to the King. The rest you know. Mar is dead, and I have been forced to fly for my life.’

Still chuckling to himself, Albany crossed to join me by the wall, where I was shown first the tiny peephole and then a stone similar to the one on the other side, bearing the faint indentation of a six-pointed star. The duke pressed it and yet again the same section of wall swung inwards with the familiar slight rumble and hiccough.

‘When you’ve arranged everything,’ he said, ‘come back here. Whisper through the hole and I’ll open the door from this side. I’ll be waiting, ready.’ He laid a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t fail me, Roger. I’m relying on you.’

By curfew, everything was arranged, but I waited until it was properly dark before returning to shepherd Albany through the Bristol streets and handing him over to the tender mercies of Briant of Dungarvon. When, finally, I rolled into bed, I was well nigh exhausted.

I had first been home to collect Albany’s signet ring and fend off Adela’s indignant enquiries as to where I had been and where I was going — it seemed she had decided to speak to me again, but only to point out my shortcomings as a husband. Then I visited Marsh Street, where my reappearance in the Wayfarer’s Return had been greeted with the sort of suspicion that makes a man want to stand with his back to the wall and a long, pointed knife in his hand. By the greatest of good fortune, Briant had not returned to his ship, and although undoubtedly drunk, he was able to hold his whisky well enough to grasp what I was saying. He listened to my story in silence, and although he had some difficulty in understanding the political machinations that formed its background, he was more than willing to assist a fellow Celt in trouble, especially one who might possibly prove an embarrassment to the English crown. His animosity made me wonder yet again what exactly had happened to Padraic Kinsale.

So, having delivered my charge safely into Briant’s hands, and having been assured of Albany’s undying gratitude and patronage should I ever have need of it, I staggered home to a darkened house and a sleeping family, stripped off my clothes and fell into bed beside Adela, expecting the waters of Lethe to close over my head without delay. But sleep proved elusive as the enormity of what I’d done gradually began to sink in.

I had allowed my anger with Timothy Plummer and his political masters to cloud my judgement to such an extent that I had committed what was tantamount to treason. When, earlier that evening, I had left Albany, the man who had urged his brother, the King, to re-invade the northern shires of England, I should have gone, not to Marsh Street and Briant of Dungarvon, but to Timothy Plummer at the Dominican friary. Instead, I had assisted an enemy of my country to escape to France. A great knot of fear started to form in my stoamch.

I tossed and turned, fell into an uneasy doze and dreamed that I was being marched to the gallows by Timothy Plummer, woke with a mouth as dry as tinder and had to creep downstairs to the kitchen to get a cup of water from the barrel. Adela moaned and grumbled in her sleep, but, thankfully, didn’t wake. Finally, as dawn was rimming the bedchamber shutters, I came to the conclusion that regrets were useless. What was done was done, and provided Albany kept his mouth shut, which he had promised me most faithfully he would do, no one need be any the wiser. Elizabeth Alefounder was unlikely to raise the hue and cry, and as for the miscarrying of her plans, I felt not the slightest shred of guilt.

All that remained for me to do now was to concentrate on clearing Burl’s name by pinning Robin Avenel’s murder on the real killer.

It was during breakfast — another silent meal, although I could feel the frostiness in Adela’s manner beginning to thaw — that I suddenly realized it might prove difficult to lay the blame where it truly belonged without revealing what I knew about the moving of Robin Avenel’s body. I cursed silently and sat, my spoon halfway to my mouth, frozen into immobility. The children found this very funny and began to point and laugh. Adela enquired sharply if I were well.

‘Perfectly well, my love, thank you.’ I laid down my spoon and started pulling on my boots. ‘I have to go out.’

‘Then why aren’t you taking your pack?’ my wife demanded as I laced up my jerkin and made hurriedly for the door. ‘And also that dog of yours! Roger!’

But I pretended not to hear her and fled the house, making my way through the already busy streets to Redcliffe and avoiding Broad Street, although glancing along its length as I passed the turning, I thought I saw a flurry of activity outside what had once been Alderman Weaver’s residence.