Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

So the story was repeated yet again, from my encounter with Marjorie Dyer in Bristol through to this present evening and my meeting with his mistress. I felt sometimes as though I could tell parts of it in my sleep.

When I had finished, Robert pursed his lips and frowned. ‘My lady wants him found, does she?’ he asked, referring to Sir Richard.

‘Does that surprise you?’

He shrugged, realizing that he had either given too much away or created the wrong impression, and hastened to put matters right.

‘I should have thought it obvious, after all these weeks, that Sir Richard is dead. I am merely surprised that my lady has consented to you wasting your time.’

I glanced at him and saw that he spoke more in hope than from any deep conviction. Nevertheless, the assumption of his master’s death was a reasonable one, unless he knew of circumstances which made it improbable. I probed gently.

‘Is it possible that Sir Richard could have had a leman in London, with whom he might have wished to elope?’ The steward gave this idea short shrift, and rightly so. ‘Leaving everything he valued most behind him? His house, his clothes, his worldly goods! Your wits are wool-gathering! What leman is worth such a sacrifice? My master could have spent as long as he wished away from home, so my lady knew of his intentions. No, no! Some ill has befallen him on the journey home. There is no other explanation.’

I shook my head as I swallowed the last of my ale. ‘ You forget. The horses were left at the Crossed Hands inn. Whatever happened to Sir Richard and his servant befell them in London, as it did to Clement Weaver.’

The steward was not interested in the fate of Clement Weaver, pursuing thoughts of his own.

‘Besides, Sir Richard was not a man for womanizing. I doubt if he was ever unfaithful to my lady.’ Nor of much use to her either, his tone seemed to imply, but I made no comment. Robert continued: ‘His passion was wine. He would travel miles, brave all hazards, to taste a recommended vintage. His people were vintners, two generations back, who made their fortune and married into the nobility. Not that there’s lack of precedent for such a happening. Geoffrey Chaucer’s father was a vintner, and Chaucer’s granddaughter married the Duke of Suffolk. And the present Duke, Chaucer‘s great-grandson, is married to no less a personage than the present King’s sister.’

I noted a predatory gleam in his eye. If such things could turn out so for one family, why not for another? If his lady really were a widow, there might be hope for him yet.

I got reluctantly to my feet. The warmth of the fire was pleasant and I had no wish to leave it, but I had to be on my way. Roused from the contemplation of a rosy future, the steward turned his head, becoming once again aware of my existence.

‘You’re going? You’ll be sleeping in a ditch tonight,’ he added, not without a certain satisfaction. ‘Curfew’s past. The city gates will be shut.’

I smiled maliciously. ‘Oh, there are ways and means of getting into a town after dark, if you know them. Then one only has to avoid the Watch…‘ I winked conspiratorially.

His thin face assumed a prim expression. Plainly he felt that one who had so nearly embraced the religious life should be above breaking the law. He asked: ‘What have you decided with my lady?’

‘I’ve promised her that I’ll try to discover what has happened to her husband, and send her word if I do.’

‘And what do you think are your chances?’

‘Of finding out the truth?’ I considered the question. ‘More, perhaps, than I thought when I made a similar promise to Alderman Weaver to try to find out what happened to his son. Now, at least, I feel that the Crossed Hands inn may be central to the mystery. It’s the place to begin my inquiries, at any rate.’

The steward nodded. ‘And what do you think are the chances that Sir Richard might still be alive?’

There was the sharp smell of a candle as it guttered and died. The shutters were still open to the warm night air, and I could see a thin, ragged slip of moon hanging low over the distant trees. ‘If you want my honest opinion, none,’ I answered, trying to ignore the sudden flicker of relief in the pale blue eyes. ‘I think he and Jacob Pender and Clement Weaver are all dead, but how, and by whose hand, I have as yet no idea.’

‘And motive?’ Robert asked. ‘What do you say to that?’

I hesitated, unwilling to commit myself, but with so little doubt in my own mind, I was forced to admit: ‘Robbery. Sir Richard was a wealthy man and Clement Weaver was carrying a large sum of money about his person.’

The steward frowned. ‘But surely you told me earlier that no one was aware of that fact, except his father. Not even his sister.’

I was suddenly very tired and my mind felt dull and stupid. I needed to forget this problem for a while and sleep. In any case, there was nothing further I could do now until I got to London. I determined to set out as early as I could the following morning, but before that, I wanted my bed and the spiritual refreshment of solitude. I lifted my stout ash stick from the floor where I had laid it.

‘I really must be on my way,’ I said. ‘I don’t know the answer to this puzzle yet, and I may never do so. Maybe your mistress would do better to place her reliance in the officers of the King, as would Alderman Weaver. Nevertheless, I shall do what I can and perhaps God will crown my endeavours with success.’

I held out my hand in farewell, but could see at once that I had affronted Robert’s dignity. He was a steward and did not shake the hand of a lowly chapman. It dawned on him, too, that for the last half-hour he had been talking to me as though I were his equal, and he shrank back in his chair as though contaminated. I let my arm sink slowly to my side again, not bothering to disguise my contempt. He did at least get to his feet and summoned the boy to show me out, but that was to ensure that the house was properly locked and barred after my departure.

I made my way along the track, dimly discernible in the darkness, swinging my cudgel vigorously to discourage attacks from lurking footpads or other prowlers. I was glad to shake the dust of Tuffnel Manor from my feet. Apart from Bess, I had formed no favourable opinion of its inmates and thought it an unhappy household. That did not mean, however, that I would do less than my best to discover what had happened to Sir Richard and Jacob Pender.

I learned much later that had I waited another twenty-four hours in Canterbury, I should have seen King Edward and Queen Elizabeth, together with many of their courtiers, on yet another visit to St Thomas’s shrine. (With hindsight, I should guess that the King’s conscience was troubling him over the necessary death of his cousin and enemy, the late King Henry.) Even so, there was much talk of the royal family among a group of pilgrims returning to London, with whom I travelled the last part of the way. And once again I heard the name of Lady Anne Neville.

The pilgrims were poor and on foot, like myself, and I had fallen in with them some six or seven miles outside the capital. I had spent a congenial morning discussing with a priest from Southwark William of Ockham’s theory that faith and logic could never be reconciled, and that therefore ecclesiastical authority was the sole basis for religious belief.

‘If faith and reason have nothing in common,’ I argued, ‘then God can literally move mountains. Reason tells me that it cannot be done, but William of Ockham insisted that belief is not rational. Yet that means that religion is beyond logic and not subject to the laws which govern nature. I find that difficult to accept.’

‘But, my son, you must believe in the miracles of Christ,’ my companion protested, shocked, ‘and in the absolute authority of Mother Church.’