Kate Sedley - The Lammas Feast

‘You told Adela. .’ I began, irritated by his indifference to my plight, but he interrupted me.

‘Oh, Adela! She’s a woman. You tell women all sorts of lies if you want to keep them sweet.’

Lies again! How that word kept on cropping up this morning!

‘What is it you want to ask me?’ I snapped.

‘Yesterday evening, I suddenly remembered that on one occasion, when you were airing your theories about these murders, you referred to the necessity of catching the culprit or culprits . What made you think there might be more than one killer?’

The question was unexpected and I was nonplussed. But I was also intrigued, because, now that Richard had brought it to my attention, I recollected using the same phrase to myself more than once. But why? In some secret compartment of my mind, I had evidently considered the possibility that the murders were not necessarily the work of the same person. I needed to think about it, but quietly, and preferably alone.

‘No real reason,’ I replied offhandedly. ‘Just an expression.’

Richard regarded me thoughtfully. I met his gaze with one of limpid innocence.

‘It wasn’t a considered opinion, then?’ He sounded doubtful.

‘No.’ That, at least, was the truth.

‘Right.’ He held out his hand. ‘In that case, I’ll let you get back to sleep. I hope you’re better soon. And don’t answer any more bogus summonses, from me or from anyone else. Think next time, before you go rushing off to get your head broken.’

I swallowed my indignation at this schoolmasterish reprimand because I was anxious to see him leave. Hercules, who had woken up on Richard’s entry, now decided that he, too, had had enough of this intruder. He got to his feet, stretching and baring his formidable array of sharp little teeth. The sergeant took the hint and went.

‘Good dog,’ I said, patting him.

We both settled down again, he to go back to sleep, I to continue thinking things through. Culprit or culprits ? No, I must let that be for the moment. I returned to the time when I had first observed the stranger. I remembered my impression of him; somewhere in his mid-twenties, stockily built, brown hair, hazel eyes. A common enough appearance, but one which, apart from his age, had found an uncanny echo a few minutes later in John Overbecks, as Adela, the children and I had entered the bakery. And when we had emerged after giving our order for the Lammastide bread, the young man had stared at me from across the street. At me? Or had he really been looking at somebody else? Had he, too, seen a reflection of his own features in the baker? A man old enough to be his father . .

I put a hand to my forehead and realized that I was sweating profusely as my excitement mounted. A pattern of sorts was beginning to emerge. It was all speculative, but there was also a kind of logic to it. First, there was a man who, in his youth, had fought in France and who, on his own admission, had been so revolted by the cruelty of war that he had been tempted to desert (as many another man had done, on both sides, before and after him). I remembered thinking at the time that perhaps he had deserted, but he had taken great pains to refute any such accusation. All the same — ‘You protect the people you love at all costs,’ Goody Godsmark had told me. ‘You lie and steal and cheat and kill for them.’

Who did John Overbecks love enough to lie and steal and cheat and kill for? The answer was simple. His wife: the young, fey girl who had captured his heart in late middle age and whom he adored, worshipped almost. But, once again, why? Why would it be necessary for him to kill to protect her? Suddenly, I thought I knew. Suddenly, everything began to take shape in my head. I could see, too, why, away in Brittany, a young man — not Welsh, but half-English — might enter the service of Henry Tudor in order to get back at the man he hated, a man he knew to be a loyal Yorkist. I also thought I understood why, when an agent was needed to visit known supporters of the Tudor cause in the west country, particularly in and around Bristol, this young man had volunteered. He had a special interest in the city. .

I dragged myself up and out of bed and began to dress. I felt worse than I had expected, and had to stop and rest on several occasions in order to give the room, which was spinning round and round in a disconcerting way, time to settle. Hercules roused himself and barked reproachfully. His dream of a day snuggled up beside me had been rudely shattered.

The door opened and Adela came in.

‘I’ve left Adam at Margaret’s,’ she announced, putting her basket on the table and starting to unpack it. ‘I went to see her before I did my shopping. She said to leave him with her for the rest of the morning. It would give Nick and Bess a chance to get used to him again, before they’re fetched home tomorrow.’ She broke off, suddenly aware of what I was doing. ‘Get back into bed this minute,’ she stormed. ‘You’re not fit to be up and about yet!’

‘I have to go out,’ I argued, struggling to lace my shirt to my breeches. ‘I have to see John Overbecks.’

‘John Overbecks? In heaven’s name, why?’

‘I can’t explain. Not yet, anyway. It would take too long. But I think he may be our killer. Or one of them, at least.’ I pulled on my tunic, then stood still until everything calmed down around me. ‘I’ll be all right once I get outside.’ I buckled on my belt and pouch, then pulled my hood and cape over my head, letting the hood fall back. I picked up my cudgel.

Adela was staring at me aghast. ‘You can’t do this, Roger. You look terrible. Don’t be a fool! If you have any suspicions concerning Master Overbecks — though heaven alone knows why you should — tell them to Richard. I’ll find him and bring him here, if you’ll just be sensible and lie down again. Please! This instant!’

I saw my chance and took it. ‘Very well. You fetch Richard.’

I sat down on the nearest stool, panting a little more than was strictly necessary. I was careful not to add, ‘And I’ll stay here,’ but Adela, triumphant at her apparently easy victory, simply assumed that’s what I’d meant, although, knowing me, it was unlike her to be so careless. I sent up a small prayer of thanks to God.

I walked up Broad Street, my tottering footsteps making me weave from side to side, to people’s great annoyance.

‘Look where you’re going, can’t you?’ was the universal refrain, but I was too intent on my own thoughts to feel any embarrassment. As I crossed over into High Street, someone took my arm.

‘Roger, should you be out? Dick told me what happened yesterday. This can’t be good for you. Does Adela know?’

It was Jenny Hodge, her face puckered in concern and obviously not sharing in her husband’s resentment at my possible future good fortune. ‘Where on earth are you going?’

Just at that moment, ahead of us, I saw Jane Overbecks emerge from Saint Mary le Port Street, her little dog at her heels, and set off down High Street in the direction of Bristol Bridge. I ignored Jenny’s question and countered with one of my own.

‘Jenny, you know Jane Overbecks well. Does she ever go out without John’s knowledge?’

Seeing that the answer was important to me, Jenny forbore to lecture me further and said, ‘I’ve never known her do so. Oh, he doesn’t keep her on a leash, but she likes him to be aware of what she’s doing and where she is. If she gets into trouble, she depends on him to get her out of it. He can’t do that if he doesn’t know where to find her.’ I staggered and she held my arm more tightly. ‘Let me fetch Dick from the shop to help you home. It’s only a step or two.’

I nodded. ‘Thank goodness. I’m going there myself.’