Kate Sedley - The Midsummer Rose

By the time my younger son woke me, using the simple expedient of yelling at the top of his voice in my right ear, it was almost suppertime and I was ravenous. I sat up, my head ringing from Adam’s stentorian effort, hauled him on to the bed, tickled him mercilessly until he was almost choking with laughter, then, carrying him on my shoulders, went downstairs.

The news of Burl’s release from prison and of my part in the arrest of Luke Prettywood had spread like wildfire, and the house seemed to be overflowing with people. Half the denizens of Redcliffe, including the Hodge family, had crossed Bristol Bridge and were crowded into the Small Street hall, parlour and kitchen, helping themselves liberally to my ale and eating the food intended for my dinner. Jenny Hodge flung her arms around my neck and burst into tears of gratitude — I could feel myself flushing with embarrassment. Jack and Dick patted any part of my anatomy they could manage to reach, and even Burl himself, pale and sunken-eyed from his brief sojourn in prison, muttered a few awkward words of thanks. He couldn’t stop his envious glance from darting here and there, taking in every detail of a house he was sure I didn’t deserve, but he embraced me before departing.

‘Friends?’ I asked, thrusting out my hand.

‘Friends,’ he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, then suddenly grinned. ‘Oh, damn you, Roger!’ He thumped me in the chest. ‘How can folk stay at odds with you, when you go around pulling them out of trouble all the time?’

‘That’s enough of that sort of talk,’ Jenny admonished him sharply. ‘Just be thankful that there’s somebody who can!’

Eventually, my well-wishers dispersed, including Margaret Walker, who was borne off in triumph by Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins to recount their adventure and be fêted in turn by those Redcliffe neighbours who had not ended up in Small Street, eating and drinking me out of house and home.

Adela, the children and I settled down to a belated supper of mutton stewed with lentils and garlic and a much-depleted bowl of cherries, my favourite fruit (and, by the look of things, the favourite fruit of many of our uninvited guests). But we were not to be left alone for long. The arrival of Richard Manifold, to ask more questions, put paid to our peace.

He was not our only visitor. Accompanying him was Timothy Plummer, who had at last shed his various disguises and was restored to the full importance of his royal livery. His apparently sudden appearance had plainly disconcerted the sergeant, who was regarding him morosely. And my innocent revelation that the King’s Spymaster General had been in the city for several weeks, first as a beggar, then as a Dominican friar, only added to his resentment.

I ushered them both into the parlour and folded my arms, waiting to hear what they had to say.

‘Well, we have Luke Prettywood’s confession,’ Richard began. ‘And we also have Mistress Avenel’s evidence that her husband attacked Luke first and that the killing was done in self-defence. Of course, that’s borne out by the fact that Master Avenel was stabbed with his own dagger.’

‘Mistress Avenel was present when her husband was killed?’ I asked.

Something in my tone must have betrayed my stupefaction because Timothy Plummer glanced sharply at me. Richard Manifold, however, heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Of course. She was down in Saint Giles’s crypt with Luke when Master Avenel found them. Why else would he have attacked the lad, if not because he was her lover? He must have suspected what was going on between those two and followed them. It also explains how the body came to be moved into Jewry Lane. But for some reason or another that I can’t quite fathom, they both deny shifting it. However, it’s obvious to me why they did it. If people knew where their trysting place was, they ran less risk of being suspected of the crime if it was thought Master Avenel had been killed in the street. Then, to make doubly certain, Luke assaulted Jack Gload and was taken into custody. Oh, yes! He’s a very cunning young man.’

Across the little room, I met Timothy Plummer’s unwavering gaze.

‘And is that what you think happened, Roger?’ he asked.

‘Well … Yes, of c-course. It makes perfect sense,’ I stuttered.

‘And you can offer no other idea as to who might have moved Robin Avenel’s dead body? Or why?’

‘I don’t know why you suppose I should be able to,’ I answered blandly, recovering my poise. I turned back to Richard Manifold, who was regarding the pair of us with a slightly puzzled expression. ‘What does Mistress Alefounder have to say concerning her brother’s movements on Midsummer Eve?’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘She has no knowledge of them. He’d said nothing to her of his suspicions, and there was so much confusion during the feast. She’s returning to Frome as soon as possible. It’s been a terrible time for her. First her brother’s death, and now this revelation of her sister-in-law’s perfidy.’ He braced his shoulders, his natural self-importance reasserting itself. ‘Well, I must be off. There’s work to be done. I just thought you’d like to know what’s happened, Roger. Once again, you’ve done the Law a service.’

Heaven knows what the admission cost him. He had to grit his teeth and his features were set in a rictus smile. Besides, he must have guessed that I had been aware of Timothy Plummer’s presence in the city and given him no warning. But still, he managed it with sufficient grace to make me disclaim modestly that I wasn’t worthy of such high praise. The Spymaster General looked as though he agreed with me, and I wasn’t surprised when he declined Richard’s invitation to dine with him at the castle.

‘I need to speak to the chapman, Sergeant, if you don’t mind. Privately.’

All Richard’s suspicions were reawakened, I could tell, but there was nothing he could do but leave us alone.

‘I’ll make my adieus to Adela, if I may,’ he said stiffly, and I nodded.

‘You’ll find her in the kitchen.’

When the parlour door had closed behind him, Timothy let out a sigh of relief.

‘That man’s a fool,’ he remarked, stretching and seating himself, uninvited, in the window embrasure. ‘If he were capable of placing events in an orderly sequence, he’d see at once that that adulterous pair couldn’t have moved her husband’s body. So, Roger, who did?’

‘Why should you think that I know?’

He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Because you knew what was going on. Because you worked out where Albany was hidden and you found him. It was somewhere down in that cellar beneath the church. It has to be. And don’t insult my intelligence by trying to persuade me otherwise. So where’s our precious renegade now, eh? Mistress Alefounder obviously doesn’t know any more. She’s lost him or she wouldn’t be going home to Frome. That leaves you, Roger. You realize I could charge you with treason?’

‘I should deny all knowledge of any Scottish duke. I should also deny speaking to you on the river bank when you told me far more, I’m sure, than you ought to have done. For which you should be thankful, or it might be you who is charged with treason. All I’m guilty of is clearing the name of an innocent man who you were quite prepared to see die on the gallows. You thought that Albany had killed Robin Avenel, didn’t you? So you found a scapegoat and threw him to the wolves.’

Timothy sighed. ‘You are bitter, aren’t you? Is that why you did it? Why you helped Albany get away?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I answered coldly.

The Spymaster got to his feet.

‘Ah well! I shall just have to return to the King and report failure in this case. Don’t worry, I shan’t mention my suspicions concerning you. I’m riding north, anyway, as soon as I can, to rejoin my lord of Gloucester. I think I told you. Shall I say you commend yourself to him?’