Kate Sedley - Nine Men Dancing

‘William the Bastard,’ Theresa Lilywhite corrected her with quiet venom.

Maud repeated, ‘William the Bastard,’ with a look of scarcely veiled derision. For my benefit, she explained, ‘My mother-in-law’s family are of Saxon descent, or so they say-’

‘There’s no “say” about it,’ Theresa interrupted angrily. ‘My great-great-great-grand-father’s great-great-great-great-grandfather was horsekeeper to Earl Godwin himself, at Berkeley.’

My brain was too tired to work out whether this was a feasible claim or not, and in any case, Maud had resumed her story.

‘As I was telling you, chapman, whatever the truth about the first Martin, it’s certain the family had lived at the Hall for a very long time. But by the middle of the last century, only two brothers, Tobias and Humphrey, remained. Both men were bachelors and seemed likely to stay that way. Even before the plague claimed their lives, it seemed that they would be the last of their line.

‘Like many elderly, unmarried people they grew more and more reclusive as the years went by, so much so that they went less and less beyond the confines of the Hall. But there was a problem. The chief water supply for the area was the Draco, that little stream that flows downhill to join with the larger one at the bottom. It ran straight through Upper Brockhurst’s main street, where it was deepest and widest. There was, of course, a well in the Hall’s stableyard, but whoever sank it originally hadn’t dug down far enough, and, in summer, the water level became extremely low. This had never worried earlier generations of Martins, who simply fetched extra supplies from the Draco, like the rest of their neighbours.’

‘But that didn’t suit Humphrey and Tobias?’ I suggested, leaning down to pat Hercules, who had suddenly woken up with a snort and an urgent desire to hunt for fleas.

Maud shook her head. ‘No. It seems that as well as becoming recluses, the brothers had also grown miserly in their old age. They’d turned off their last servant some years before, and looked after themselves. But they had to have water, and if, in times of drought, they weren’t prepared to walk into the village and fill buckets from the Draco, then they had to have their own well deepened. My grandmother – or, rather, her grandmother – couldn’t remember the details, but it seems that a couple of wellers, a father and son from Tetbury way, were persuaded to come to Brockhurst Hall and carry out the necessary work. This they duly did, but-’ and here Maud lowered her voice impressively, indicating that she was approaching the climax of her story – ‘two days after they’d finished, and said goodbye to the friends they’d made during their stay in the village, they were found murdered in woodland about a mile or so from the Hall. The backs of their heads had been battered in with two great tree branches that were left beside the bodies, covered in blood. But before the hue and cry could be raised, or a message sent to the Sheriff’s Officers at Gloucester, the first case of plague arrived in Upper Brockhurst. Maybe the wellers had brought it, who knows? But within weeks, the entire population, including Humphrey and Tobias Martin, was wiped out. And in the meantime, of course, no one from outside the village would go anywhere near them. Lower Brockhurst sealed itself off from the outside world – nobody was allowed in or out of the village for more than three months – and consequently everyone survived.’

‘So,’ I said, straightening up on my stool as Hercules settled down to sleep again, ‘no one has ever discovered why the two wellers were murdered, or by whom. But couldn’t it simply have been footpads? Or outlaws? After all, the Martins must have paid them for their work before they left the Hall. They would have had money on them.’

Maud Lilywhite added another log to the fire, stretching her feet towards the flames.

‘But according to my great-great-grand-mother,’ she said quietly, ‘neither man had been robbed. Their money was still in the pouches attached to their belts. So it couldn’t possibly have been footpads or outlaws.’

‘An intriguing story, eh, chapman?’ Theresa asked, offering me yet another cup of ale, which I declined, feeling I had already consumed enough for one evening. ‘And one to which we shall, I’m afraid, never know the answer.’

‘After well over a hundred years, I’m sure that’s only too true,’ I agreed regretfully, and she laughed.

‘You don’t like unsolved mysteries, I can tell.’

‘No, I don’t.’

I saw her glance narrowly at her daughter-in-law before saying forcefully, ‘Well then, here’s one recent enough for you to be able to unravel. Perhaps you can discover what’s happened to my granddaughter, Eris, who went missing over six months ago on the night of the great storm.’

‘Mother-in-law, leave it! Please!’

‘Nonsense!’ was the robust answer to this heartfelt appeal. ‘Someone’s got to find out what’s become of the girl. If she’s been murdered-’ Theresa’s voice cracked a little on the word – ‘or if she has simply run away. Although, knowing your daughter, Maud, I hardly think that’s likely. She was too much your child in that respect. She knew a good catch when she hooked one. She wasn’t going to throw old Nathaniel Rawbone back into the sea. Not with the fortune he has salted away.’

‘ Nathaniel Rawbone?’ I asked. ‘Excuse me, but you must understand that I’ve already heard something of the story-’

‘From Rosamund Bush, I’ll be bound!’ the older woman exclaimed. ‘That one’s going to play the part of the Wronged Woman for the rest of her life. What has she told you?’

‘That she and Tom Rawbone – a member of the same family, I take it – were betrothed, but that he jilted her in favour of your granddaughter. It came out quite naturally in conversation. She didn’t go out of her way to tell me.’ I found myself springing to the Fair Rosamund’s defence.

Theresa Lilywhite snorted disbelievingly, but made no comment.

‘It’s quite true,’ her daughter-in-law put in, evidently deciding that, as I knew so much, I might as well know the rest. ‘A year ago this month, Eris went to work at Dragonswick Farm – that’s the building you can see higher up the hill – for the Rawbone family. They needed extra help in the house, there being seven of them in all, and their housekeeper, Elvina Merryman having recently been sick.’ She added, looking defiantly at Theresa, ‘It wasn’t Eris’s fault if Tom Rawbone fell in love with her and out of love with Rosamund Bush.’

‘Maybe not,’ Theresa retorted grimly, ‘but having stolen another woman’s betrothed, Eris should have been content with having done sufficient mischief. She should never have permitted the attentions of a man old enough to be her grandfather, and also the father of the man she had promised to marry. But, of course, she was never in love with Tom. He was just a way of worming herself into the Rawbone family.’ Theresa sniffed disparagingly. ‘She’d not long turned sixteen, and as crafty as the serpent in Eden. Well, I’ll tell you this, chapman! She didn’t get her mercenary, philandering ways from my side of the family. I wasn’t born a Lilywhite, but my husband’s folk were as honest and God-fearing as any you’ll find in England. There wasn’t a woman in Gloucester who would have turned down an offer of marriage from my Gilbert.’

I said hurriedly, not wishing to be drawn into any quarrel between mother- and daughter-in-law, ‘Are you telling me that Eris – that your granddaughter – jilted Tom Rawbone in her turn, and for the young man’s father?’

It was Maud who answered, refusing to rise to Theresa’s bait.