Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

‘Thomas Prynne?’ I queried, although I was sure of his answer.

‘Yes. But I’ve already explained-’

‘I’m not here to sell you anything,’ I cut in quickly. ‘A friend of yours, Marjorie Dyer, told me to look you up if I was ever in London.’

‘Marjorie Dyer? Of Bristol?’

‘The same. Also Alderman Weaver mentioned that you might be persuaded to give me a corner to sleep in for the time that I’m here.’

‘Alfred Weaver?’ he demanded incredulously. The eyes twinkled more than ever. ‘He said that? Now what in heaven’s name would one of our leading Bristol Aldermen be doing talking to a chapman?’ The West Country accent was still very strong.

I grinned. It was obvious that Thomas Prynne had the measure of his old boyhood friend.

‘It’s a long story,’ I replied. ‘Not one to be told in a moment. Later, perhaps, when you have more time. I’m off to the Cheap presently to sell my goods, if I’m lucky. But I’d like to be sure of a night’s lodging first. I can pay my way if the accommodation is not too fancy.’

Thomas Prynne shrugged. ‘Any friend of Marjorie’s can have a bed here for nothing, and welcome. We have only one visitor at present. Another is expected later this evening, but that leaves a room empty. It’s yours until we need it. Then, if you’re still here, you may sleep in the kitchen for as long as you like.’ He smiled, the lines deepening around the corners of his eyes. ‘But I shall expect you to take your food and ale here.’

‘Judging from the smells coming from your kitchen that won’t be any hardship,’ I answered cheerfully. ‘But Marjorie Dyer and I have only a passing acquaintance. I shouldn’t wish to take advantage of your generosity without making that plain.’

Thomas regarded me steadily. ‘You know, you’ve aroused my interest. Why should such a brief encounter have caused her to mention my name?’ He indicated one of the barrels ranged around the walls. ‘I have an excellent ale which I don’t hand out to everyone. Surely, you can delay your visit to the Cheap long enough to sample it with me and satisfy my curiosity at the same time. There are still sufficient hours of daylight left for you to sell at least some of your goods.’

I hesitated, feeling that I had already wasted enough precious hours that day, but in view of his most kind offer of free lodgings, what choice did I have but to comply?

I moved to one of the long wooden tables near the old- fashioned, central hearthstone and sat down. I noticed how beautifully clean everything was, the table-tops scrubbed, the sawdust and scattered rushes on the floor freshly laid. ‘I’ll answer any questions you want to ask,’ I said.

When I was a child, on winter-nights, when the door of our cottage was shut against the darkness outside and there was little else to do but sleep, my mother would sing to me. One of the songs I remember best was of the sort where you keep repeating the words you have sung before, but adding a little extra information each time. I reflected that my story was getting like this, growing in length with each retelling, so that now, it took me almost half an hour before I reached my arrival in London. Fortunately, Thomas Prynne was an excellent listener, giving me his full attention and not interrupting with unnecessary questions or exclamations of wonder and astonishment. When I had finished, however, he did permit himself a long, low whistle.

‘A very strange story. You intend to keep your promise to Alfred Weaver, then?’

I twisted my cup of ale between my fingers. ‘I have to confess that I had all but forgotten it by the time I got to Canterbury. If the truth be told, I thought the Alderman’s idea that I might be of some assistance extremely foolish. I thought — I suppose I still do think it possible — that Clement Weaver fell a prey to footpads.’ I could see by Thomas Prynne’s vigorous nod of the head that this was his own opinion. ‘But what happened in Canterbury made me less certain. It also seemed that God meant me to take a hand.’

My companion looked dubious. ‘There is such a thing as coincidence, a more frequent occurrence than you might at first imagine.’ He added: ‘Young Clement’s disappearance was a terrible thing, but robbery and death are not uncommon in London.’

I frowned, watching him pour more ale into my empty cup. ‘The point is, we don’t know for certain that Clement’s dead. And that is what bothers me. Why would footpads take the time and trouble to remove the body?’

Thomas Prynne grimaced. ‘A difficulty, on the face of it, I grant you. But there might be reasons. Perhaps, with winter coming on, they were desperate for clothes. Perhaps they were disturbed, or thought they might be disturbed, before they could safely strip the body, so they carried it away. Not as much of a problem as it seems, if there was more than one of them. And these fellows often work in gangs.’

The need for clothing was something I had not previously thought of. But even so, if the robbers had money, they could buy clothes. And there was still the disappearance of Sir Richard Mallory to be considered. I shook my head.

‘I’m convinced,’ I said, ‘that there’s some mystery about the Crossed hands inn. Do you know anything of Martin Trollope?’

‘I know him by sight, naturally, and to give the time of day to. Other than that, we have little contact. We are, after all, rivals for custom in the same street.’ Thomas smiled ruefully. ‘And all the advantages are on his side. Location, size, royal patronage and connections …’

‘Tenuous ones, if my information is correct.‘ What was it Bess had said? ‘Trollope is merely the cousin of a dependant of the Duke of Clarence.’

Thomas laughed outright at that. ‘It’s easy to tell, Roger Chapman, that you haven’t long been in London. Such a “mere” connection is not to be sneezed at. A great deal of trade at the Crossed Hands is by recommendation from the Duke himself. I wish I could boast as much in the way of royal support.‘ He sipped his ale, regarding me thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. ‘So! What do you intend doing by way of fulfilling your promise to Alfred Weaver?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ I admitted. ‘I haven’t as yet decided on a plan of action. But something may occur to me.’

‘I’m sure it will,’ Thomas assured me drily. ‘You seem a very resourceful and competent young man. A chapman who can read and write! Well, well! Wonders will never cease. I can read a little, myself, but putting pen to paper is a skill I have never mastered. I have to rely for that on my partner, Abel Sampson.‘ I must have looked surprised, because he laughed. ‘Did you think that I run this place single-handed?’

‘No. No, of course not. I just hadn’t thought about it at all, I suppose. As I’ve already told you, Marjorie Dyer and I had only the briefest of acquaintances. You’re not married?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘I’ve never felt the need. My experience is that wives are generally a hindrance. There are plenty of women for the having in any city, but especially in London. I learned to cook when I was landlord of the Running Man, and with only three bedrooms, not all of which are occupied at any one time, the demands on me are not excessive. Abel and I are our own cellarers, servers and chamberers. That way, with no other wages to pay, and no dependants, we manage to make a living. It’s not easy, but at least the place belongs to us, whereas in Bristol the Running Man was the property of St Augustine’s Abbey, and all my efforts simply resulted in the Church getting richer, with no reward to myself.’

‘You deserve to do well,’ I said, adding fervently: ‘This ale is the best I’ve ever tasted and, as I remarked before, the cooking smells delicious.’