Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

‘You shall sample it tonight, when you return from the Cheap.‘ He rose to his feet, picking up our empty cups. ‘As for our ales, and especially our wines, Abel and I do the buying ourselves. The ships from Bordeaux tie up west of the Steelyard, at Three Cranes Wharf. It means early rising to be ahead of the vintners, but we don’t begrudge that extra effort. In time, we hope to gain a reputation for selling the best wines of any inn in London.’

I was beginning to admire this man more and more. He was plainly determined, against the odds, to make a success of his venture; and he had all the Bristolian’s canniness with money which should enable him to succeed. He also had humanity and a vein of humour which I found attractive, and I wished him well.

‘When I return this evening, ‘ I said, ‘ I should like to talk to you about the night Clement Weaver disappeared. If you can spare the time, that is.’

He smiled down at me. ‘We’re expecting another guest, as I told you, but he’s been on the road from Northampton for the past few days, and according to the carrier who brought his message, doesn’t anticipate being here until late. So, if the opportunity arises …’ He broke off with a shrug. ‘Our other guest, by the way, you’ll meet at supper. An impoverished gentleman who is rapidly becoming poorer yet on account of all the litigation he’s involved in. He’s come to London for the second time this year to petition the King. Something to do with land and a contested will.’ He sighed, as if for the folly of the human race. ‘London is full of people like him, pouring their money into the pockets of the lawyers.’

I nodded. I remembered seeing them earlier that day in St Paul’s cloisters.

A step sounded in the passage outside, and a moment later, a tall, thin man appeared in the open doorway of the ale-room. Thomas Prynne nodded towards him.

‘This is my partner, Abel Sampson.’

A second glance showed me that Abel Sampson, though tall, was not so tall as I was. (I use the past tense here because, with the passage of time, I have become a little stooped. Arthritic limbs have inevitably taken their toll.) He was, nevertheless, a considerable height, standing well over five-and-a-half feet, the top of his head reaching to the level of my eyebrows. It was his slender frame which made him appear taller than he really was. I don’t say he was emaciated, but he was certainly extremely thin, and the contrast he made with Thomas Prynne was almost ludicrous. I had to school my features rigorously to prevent them breaking into a grin.

Abel Sampson was also a great deal younger than I had expected; not much above twenty-four or — five summers I guessed. He had sandy hair and eyebrows, pale blue eyes and bloodless, almost invisible lips which looked as though they did not know how to smile. Humourless, I decided. And here again, as so often in the past, my first impressions were wrong. In those days, as I have said somewhere before in this tale, I was not a good judge of character. I jumped too far and too fast to false conclusions. Abel Sampson suddenly smiled, and, like Richard of Gloucester, whom I had seen earlier that same day, his face seemed to light up from within, turning him into a different person.

‘Is this the man we’ve been expecting?’ he asked his partner.

Thomas shook his head. ‘No, no! I’m sure I told you that Master Farmer would not be arriving until late this evening.’ He spoke severely, obviously deploring this lapse of memory.

Abel looked sheepish. ‘So you did,’ he agreed. He added, addressing me: ‘I have a terrible memory.’

I laughed, getting to my feet and picking up my pack. ‘Then I’m in good company,’ I replied, ‘because I have, too.’ I turned to Thomas Prynne. ‘I’ll be off, now. I can’t afford to waste any more daylight. But I’ll be back for my supper. I hope to have made some money by then, so make it a large one.’

‘You shall have as much stew as you can eat,’ he promised. ‘In the kitchen with us, or in here with our guest, Master Parsons.’

Before I could open my mouth, Abel had made the decision for me.

‘Eat with us,’ he advised, grinning. ‘The lugubrious Gilbert will be very poor company after yet another day wasted in the law courts.’

I hoisted my pack on to my shoulders. ‘Precisely what I was intending to suggest myself.’ I moved towards the door of the ale-room. ‘Besides, there’s something I want to discuss with Master Prynne here.’

‘Call us Thomas and Abel,’ that worthy reproved me. ‘We’re on Christian name terms with any friend of Marjorie Dyer.’

Abel Sampson agreed wholeheartedly. ‘And we’ll call you Roger.’ He nodded at my pack. ‘I wish you luck with your selling.’

I thanked him and asked directions to the Cheap. Moments later, I was once again walking up Crooked Lane in the direction of Thames Street. Outside the Crossed Hands inn I paused for the second time that day, staring thoughtfully up at the window which had been shut so roughly earlier in the morning. I had seen a figure hovering behind it, I was sure. Someone must have been there to have provoked so angry a reaction from the second person, the one who had closed the casement. I tried to recall the voice I had heard shouting ‘Get back!’ and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced it was a man’s.

I suppose I stood there longer than I realized, because all at once someone said angrily in my ear: ‘Get a move on, chapman! I don’t want your sort loitering here.’

I swung round to find myself confronting a man of very nearly my own height, and a great deal broader. In fact, he was of quite considerable girth. He had a thick, bushy beard which concealed most of his face and was of the same dark brown as his curly hair. His eyes, too, were brown, and also what could be seen of his skin, which was weatherbeaten to the colour of a walnut. Burly was the word which came to mind. If he had not been so well dressed, in a fine linen shirt beneath a soft woollen tunic, with boots of good quality leather on his feet, I should have taken him for a rough ex-soldier. There was something military in his stance and the way he barked out his orders. But his use of the first person and his tone of authority made me fairly certain that this was Martin Trollope.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, swallowing my anger and speaking as humbly as I could. ‘But this is my first visit to London and I find everything fascinating. I was admiring your windows.’

‘Why?’ was the brusque retort. ‘You’ve seen windows before, haven’t you? Now, get away from here! I told you, I don’t want your sort hanging around.’

The man was definitely on edge, and I felt that it was time to make him still edgier.

‘Are you the landlord, Martin Trollope?’ I asked.

He glowered fiercely, but I noticed his right hand playing nervously with the buckle of his red leather belt. ‘And if I am, what’s it to you?’

‘Nothing. Nothing,’ I answered placatingly. ‘It’s only that I’ve heard of you. I was in Canterbury last month and was fortunate enough to have sold some of my wares to Lady Mallory of Tuffnel Manor.’ It was a lie, but only a white one. ‘Her maid told me afterwards about Sir Richard’s disappearance from this inn. And also that of his man, Jacob Pender.’

Martin Trollope’s reaction was not quite what I had hoped for. ‘Oh, him!’ he grunted sourly. ‘Left still owing me money. Hadn’t paid for his own or his servant’s lodging.’ I forbore to say that this was not Lady Mallory’s story, and he continued: ‘ And his father-in-law, Sir Gregory Bullivant, God rot him, refused to settle the account. Said I had no proof that Sir Richard had absconded without paying.’