Kate Sedley - The Midsummer Rose

‘Yes, of course, if you’d like me to.’

Luke smiled and once again bent over her hand, while she peeped up at him from beneath her long lashes. Her compliance, I reflected meanly, was easily explained. Her father’s assistant was a good-looking young man and she couldn’t resist adding him to her list of conquests — if she hadn’t done so already.

Luke Prettywood fetched and lit a new candle, pocketed his tinderbox and gallantly offered her his arm.

‘I’ll wish you good day, then, chapman,’ he said. ‘I daresay you want to be off.’

It was almost as if he were anxious to see me gone. It made me wonder. Had the little scene recently enacted by the pair been solely for my benefit? Was there something more between them than I had so far suspected? Margaret had referred to Marianne Avenel as a fly-by-night, with an underlying suggestion that she was not as dutiful — or as faithful? — a wife as she should be. Or was I adding two and two together and making five?

I watched Luke Prettywood and Marianne Avenel disappear down the steps leading to the crypt, but made no attempt to be on my way. Instead, I lit another candle, gave the couple a moment or two’s grace, then followed them.

The crypt of Saint Giles was an oppressive place, with a smell of damp and decay much more noticeable than in the church above. I was not normally so sensitive to atmosphere, but I suddenly had an overwhelming impression of unhappiness and suffering. I put it down to my weakened state and told myself not to be foolish. I looked around for my quarry, but saw nothing except tombs and rows of stone coffins lined up on shelves.

I held my candle higher, but its wavering light revealed only the dead. There was no sign of the living.

I moved forward cautiously, and as my eyes again grew accustomed to this greater gloom, I realized that the vault immediately below the church was not the full extent of the crypt. Ahead of me loomed an archway, and beyond that lay a second chamber, the only difference being that it was used, not as a repository for the dead, but as a storeroom. A number of chests, old and covered in cobwebs, were ranged against the walls, together with planks of wood and numerous pieces of furniture that had seen better days. I hazarded a guess that the priest was running a profitable little business on the side, augmenting his stipend by renting out space to those of his parishioners who had items they were loath to throw away, but no longer had room for in their houses.

To my astonishment, yet another archway beckoned, and I walked forward to find myself staring into a third, equally dusty chamber. This one, however, was empty. Empty, that is, except for the pale gleam of two figures at the far end, locked together in what was obviously a passionate embrace. Luke Prettywood and Marianne Avenel, without a doubt. Who else could it be?

I was uncertain whether I should announce my presence or withdraw discreetly. In the end, as they seemed not to have noticed me, discretion won. I tiptoed back the way I had come and was just about to mount the steps to the church when the amorous pair reappeared, looking hot, dishevelled and, when they clapped eyes on me, distinctly guilty.

‘Ch-Chapman? I … We … What are you doing down here? I thought you’d gone.’ Master Prettywood was plainly disconcerted.

I assumed my blandest expression. ‘Once I’d finished my prayers, I decided that I, too, would like to pay my respects to your sister.’ It sounded a pretty lame excuse, so I hurried on. ‘But when I got down here, I couldn’t find you anywhere. Where were you?’

I saw Marianne Avenel glance sideways at Luke as she surreptitiously let go of his hand. But her swain, having regained his composure, was up to the challenge.

‘Mistress Avenel,’ he lied smoothly, ‘has never been in Saint Giles’s crypt before, but of course she’s heard of the great cellars that run beneath the church, almost as far as Saint John’s-on-the-Arch. She asked me to show them to her.’

I was intrigued to know about these cellars myself. ‘I did peep into the next chamber,’ I admitted, adding innocently, ‘Are there others beyond that?’

Luke, taking this as proof that I had seen nothing that I shouldn’t have done, gave me a relieved smile.

‘There is a third one. These are the cellars of the Jewish synagogue that once stood on this site. Do you know about that?’ I nodded. ‘Well, when Saint Giles was built, the cellars were left. But only the first room, this one, is needed as a crypt. So local people have always used the second as a storeroom. The third one’s empty.’ He laughed. ‘My grandfather told me that his grandfather, as a boy, used to come down here with his friends searching for a way into the secret vault that people swore had been built by the Jews in order to house their hoard of gold and silver. In those days, everyone thought that as the Jews had been forced to leave in such a hurry, they must have gone without their treasure.’ Luke laughed again. ‘But no one ever found it — the entrance to the secret vault, I mean. If, that is, it ever existed outside of people’s imaginations.’ He turned to his companion. ‘And now, Mistress Avenel, I must get back to the brewery. Thank you for coming down to see my sister’s coffin. It was kind of you. But first, may I have the pleasure of escorting you home? Broad Street is on my way.’

Isaid swiftly, ‘I can escort Mistress Avenel home. You must be wanting to return to the brewery.’

Luke Prettywood smiled triumphantly. ‘I’m not returning to the brewery, chapman. I’m on my way to the market to buy grain, but I can’t do that until the market bell has been rung. It’s one of the city’s laws,’ he added in answer to my look of scepticism, ‘written down in Bristol’s Great Red Book. It’s so that one brewer shan’t have the advantage over another by buying up all the best grain just because he’s an early bird and his rival has overslept. All very commendable, but it’s a scramble once the bell has gone and the bidding starts.’

‘Well, then,’ I argued, ‘shouldn’t you be off at once in order to make sure of a place at the front of the crowd? Mistress Avenel will be perfectly safe in my company, I assure you.’

But Luke wasn’t prepared to forgo his mistress’s company except for a very good reason. He offered Marianne his arm, which she accepted with an alacrity that would have been positively insulting had I not known how things stood between them. I wondered if they were cuckolding Robin Avenel, or if matters had not yet gone that far.

I let them reach the steps leading up to the nave. Then I called after them. ‘Mistress Avenel! I wanted to speak to your sister-in-law. Is she at home this morning?’

The lady turned, her delicate eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Do you know Mistress Alefounder, sir?’

I thought quickly. ‘I’m not sure. I think I might do. But I shan’t be certain unless I see her. Is she at home?’

Marianne frowned. ‘She may have gone out; she rises early … Her companion might be there, however. Are you acquainted with Mistress Hollyns?’

‘Not that I know of. On the other hand,’ I went on hastily, before Marianne lost interest, ‘I could be. Does Mistress Hollyns by any chance own a blue brocade gown?’

‘She may do,’ my informant conceded doubtfully. Her tone implied that, as mistress of the house, she had better things to do than notice the attire of her sister-in-law’s maid.

‘I think, then, that I must try to see either Mistress Alefounder or the other lady for myself,’ I concluded.

Marianne Avenel gave her companion an apologetic glance and sighed. ‘In that case, you’d better come home with me.’