Kate Sedley - The Midsummer Rose

‘Hush!’ Adela laid a warning fingertip on my lips. ‘Let the others sleep for a while. Margaret is sharing Elizabeth’s room, and that child is a very light sleeper.’

‘So what else did Richard discover?’ I demanded angrily. But I lowered my voice.

‘Someone told him that the owner of the ‘murder’ house could be a James Witherspoon, nephew of the murdered man. When the two women were executed, the house passed to him.’

‘And what did he have to say?’ My heart was slamming against my ribs as my excitement mounted.

‘Nothing. No one of that name lives in Rownham Passage any more. It appears the house has stood empty ever since the murder. As far as anyone knows, it hasn’t been occupied for fifty years.’

‘It’s a lie!’ I exclaimed furiously. ‘There were two women and a man stopping in that house only last week. And there were a couple of horses in the hovel near the track! Why won’t anyone take me seriously?’

‘Sweetheart, we would,’ my wife assured me soothingly, ‘if there were any evidence to back up your story.’

‘Then what really happened? Tell me that!’ There was a pregnant silence. I waited grimly as realization dawned that my womenfolk had already concocted their own version of events. ‘Well?’

‘Richard …’ My wife produced the name tentatively, rather like someone proffering a handful of truffles to a wild boar. She cleared her throat. ‘Richard says that the ferryman told him you were talking somewhat wildly on the journey across from Ashton-Leigh. Something about building a bridge between the summit of Ghyston Cliff and the opposite heights. He thought maybe you’d got a touch of the sun. It was extremely hot the Wednesday morning of last week. He — we thought that perhaps you’d grown confused in your mind and wandered off the track down to the water’s edge, where … where you became faint or dizzy — or both — and fell in.’

I was so taken aback that I was rendered speechless for at least half a minute. Finally, I forced out, ‘It was raining! The heavens had opened! There was a violent summer squall! The weather conditions alone would have revived me if I’d been feeling faint.’ I drew a deep breath, trying to contain my frustration. ‘Adela … My love … I know what I saw and what happened to me. There were two horses, three people. They weren’t figments of my imagination.’

‘So what did these people look like?’ she asked.

This was better. Here, I was on surer ground. I plunged confidently into a description of the woman in brown sarcenet.

‘Tall, with a fine, big-breasted figure-’

‘Trust you to notice that,’ Adela grumbled, ‘even in a dream.’

‘About our age, maybe a little older, but not by much. Handsome face. I think her eyebrows were reddish in colour, which probably means she also has red hair. I didn’t have time to notice her eyes. Spoke and moved like someone used to command. A mistress, not a servant. Her gown was made of silk. Oh, and she had a black leather girdle, tipped with silver tags studded with turquoises. Good, brown leather shoes.’

I could see that this detailed picture had impressed Adela more than she would admit. She was looking thoughtful. ‘So, what about the other two?’ she pressed.

There was silence for a moment, during which I realized that what I had been thinking was solid ground was really a quagmire.

‘I … er … I didn’t see the man who was with them at all,’ I confessed reluctantly. ‘Just heard his voice. But I can tell you that he spoke with a peculiar accent. Not one I know. I couldn’t recognize it, if I’m honest.’

‘And the other woman?’

‘She …’ I tried to sound confident. ‘She had on a blue brocade gown — or skirt — and red leather shoes.’

‘And that’s all you can say about her?’

‘That’s all I saw.’ The admission sounded damning, even to my ears. ‘I was just recovering from a vicious blow to the back of my head,’ I added defensively.

Adela said nothing, and I could see only too clearly what she and Margaret had made of my story. They had talked it over and reached the simple conclusion that I had been adversely affected by the hot weather. My reported remarks to the ferryman had made that a certainty, not only in their eyes, but also in those of Richard Manifold and this Jason Tyrrwhit himself. Later, approaching the ‘murder’ house as I walked along the St Brendan’s track, I had been reminded of the killing and taken ill at one and the same time. I had wandered, not knowing what I was doing, down to the river’s edge and there dropped my pack and cudgel as I lost consciousness, falling into the water …

Might it really have happened like that?

No! My womenfolk had got me doubting the evidence of my own senses.

‘And the Irish sea captain?’ Adela’s voice cut across my teeming thoughts. ‘What was he like? You haven’t described him.’

The Irishman! Of course! How had I managed to forget him? I even knew his name. Well, I ought to have known his name; the man had proclaimed it loudly enough. Memory, however, was playing tricks on me — not surprisingly, I suppose, considering everything I had been through in the past week or more, but its loss was inconvenient at this juncture.

‘He was a big man,’ I said, ‘from the south of Ireland.’ I spoke with confidence. The southern Irish lilt was as familiar around the Bristol streets and Backs as our own west country burr. ‘He wore thick-soled boots, frieze breeches and had hands as big as shovels. He also carried a knife, but I’ve already explained that. Unfortunately, I didn’t see his face.’

There was a protracted silence before Adela whispered, ‘The man who was murdered in that house, all those years ago, was an Irishman. But I expect you know that. Lillis must have mentioned it when she told you the tale.’

Breakfast was an uncomfortable meal.

I was in a foul mood and the children, sensing it, tiptoed round me with unusual caution. Margaret stated her intention to return to Redcliffe forthwith before lapsing into guarded silence. Even Hercules slunk off to some distant corner of the house that he had made his own. Only Adela made a brave attempt at conversation, although she soon gave up.

She had urged me to stay in bed, warning me that I would feel extremely weak after more than a week’s inactivity. But I knew better. Of course I did. I was a man — one, moreover, who had experienced very little sickness in his life and who prided himself on his strength and resilience to any kind of illness. But Adela was right. Lying in bed I had felt fine. Getting dressed, washing at the pump in the tiny yard behind our house and forcing myself to swallow oatcakes and a thick collop of bacon, had been an altogether different matter. Quite apart from the fact that my legs didn’t want to do as they were told, my head still swam from the effects of the potions administered to me over the past few days by Adela. But I wasn’t going to let bodily weakness get the better of me.

When I announced I was going out after breakfast, my wife didn’t argue. She merely advised: ‘If you’re going to Rownham Passage, hire a nag from the livery stable in Bell Lane. You’re in no fit condition to walk all that way.’ I scowled and Adela burst out laughing.

Her spontaneous merriment relieved the oppressive atmosphere and the children began to giggle. Even Margaret Walker managed the travesty of a smile. Adam, excitable as ever, flicked a spoonful of porridge in my direction and scored a bullseye on my nose. I forced myself to smile at him reassuringly.

‘You don’t mean to go as far as Rownham Passage in your state of health, do you?’ Margaret demanded, jeopardizing my newly restored good humour. ‘Not just to prove this ridiculous tale of yours is true?’