Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

This took some while as there were at least half a dozen bales of the unbleached cloth to be unloaded; and when that task was finally accomplished, the man followed the Germans into the Steelyard and was gone for some time. When he emerged at last, he was ripe for someone to complain to.

‘Every single bloody bale weighed and examined,’ he grumbled. ‘The Easterlings, they don’t trust no one.’

‘They pay well, though,’ I said, remembering my conversation with Marjorie Dyer on Marsh Street quay.

The carter sniffed. ‘Don’t make no difference to me, son. I don’t see none of it. They pay my employer, or his bailiff, when ‘e comes up to London. And I get paid last of all.’

‘I’m sure Alderman Weaver doesn’t keep you waiting any longer than he has to.’

The man looked at me sharply. ‘What do you know of the Alderman?’ he asked. He cocked his head on one side, his eyes bright with curiosity. ‘I’ve seen you some place before. Are you from Bristol?’

‘I’ve been there,’ I admitted. ‘I was born in Wells.’ He nodded, as much as to say that my accent gave me away.

‘And you’re right, we have met before, if only briefly. I was with Marjorie Dyer one morning last spring when she spoke to you. The wharf at the end of Marsh Street.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, but it was obvious that although he remembered my face, he had no recollection of the occasion.

‘She gave you a letter to deliver to her cousin,’ I reminded him, but the carter merely shrugged.

‘She often does that. So do a lot of other people. You’d be surprised what I get entrusted with. Good job I’m honest.’

I agreed. ‘There’s been no news, I suppose, since then, of Clement Weaver?’

He stared at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses and quietened his restless horse.

‘No! And never will be!’ he answered scornfully. ‘He’s dead and gone, and it’s only the Alderman, poor sod, who won’t accept it.‘ He eyed me shrewdly. ‘Told you all about it, did she? Marjorie Dyer.‘ When I made no reply, he went on: ‘She’d like the matter cleared up, I dare say, just to get back the Alderman’s attention. Oh yes!‘ He winked broadly. ‘She has hopes in that direction, does Marjorie. The second Mistress Weaver, that’s what she wants to be. She always was ambitious. Never took kindly to being the poor relation, waitin’ on the rest of ’em. And now the daughter’s married and gone to live in Burnett, it’s possible Marjorie might have brought the Alderman up to scratch by this time, if he’d been able to think about anyone else except his precious Clement.’

I wasn’t altogether surprised by this revelation, confirming as it did what I already knew about the relationship between the Alderman and his house-keeper. So Alison had married the foppish William Burnett and gone to live with him in his home village, had she? That, too, was unsurprising, even if it were to be regretted. A high- spirited girl like that deserved someone better.

The carter mounted the box and took the reins between his hands. He still had deliveries to make and plainly wanted to be finished by nightfall. I stood away from the horse’s head to let him go, but he hesitated a moment longer. ’Whereabouts in the city are you lodging?‘ he asked me.

‘The Baptist’s Head in Crooked Lane.’ I interpreted his look as one of astonishment. He had not expected me to be staying at an inn, but rather at a religious hostelry, where accommodation was free and the diet of black bread, salt bacon or fish, and water. He also looked resentful, and I hastened to reassure him that I was not that much richer than he. ‘I traded on my brief acquaintance with Marjorie Dyer and the Alderman, I’m afraid. Master Prynne has most kindly agreed that I can sleep in the kitchen.’ I thought it prudent to make no mention of the bed I had been offered.

The carter nodded, accepting my explanation. Indeed, he even seemed pleased by it. He dropped the reins and fumbled in the leather pouch fastened to his belt.

‘I remember Thomas Prynne,’ he said. ‘Landlord of the Running Man in Bristol before he came to London to make his fortune. Wanted to do as well as his old friend, Alderman Weaver, if you ask me. A bit of envy, I should guess, although that’s not a bad thing if you want to get on in this world. Myself, I’m content to be what I am and follow the calling God gave me. My wife, she says that’s just an excuse for laziness, but I’ve learned to ignore her nagging. In my experience, it’s the only way to get the better of women. You’ve just got to pretend they’re not there.’

I laughed, remembering my mother. ‘They won’t stay ignored, that’s the trouble.’

He seemed, at last, to have found what he was looking for and triumphantly produced a folded paper from his pouch. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to me. ‘What a piece of luck you’re going to Crooked Lane. It’ll save me an extra journey. This letter’s from Marjorie Dyer to her cousin, Matilda Ford, who’s cook at the Crossed Hands inn. P’raps you’d be kind enough to deliver it for me.‘ As I took it from him, he gathered up the reins again and thanked me. ‘God be with you,’ he said, giving his horse the office to start.

I stared stupidly after him as he vanished up the street, the slow clop of the animal’s hooves dwindling into the distance.

My mind was reeling. Marjorie Dyer had a cousin who was cook at the Crossed Hands inn! I just stood there blindly in the middle of the street, trying to make sense of this information.

Marjorie was also distantly related to Alderman Weaver, but whether through her mother or her father I had no idea. Whichever it was, this Matilda Ford was a cousin on the other side of her family; an obvious enough deduction, as the Alderman had plainly known of no connection with the Crossed Hands inn which he might have exploited at the time of his son’s disappearance. And Marjorie had not enlightened him. Why not? There was only one conclusion to draw, however reluctant I might be to do so. Marjorie Dyer was in league with the robbers.

No, no! The idea was preposterous! But why was it? What, after all, did I know about her, except what she herself had told me? And I had been a witness to the way Alison treated her, half-friend, half-servant; the very attitude to stoke the fires of Marjorie’s resentment. Furthermore, if she really had plans to become the second Mistress Weaver, Clement’s removal would be to her advantage. With him gone and Alison provided for by marriage to a wealthy husband, why should the Alderman not make a will leaving everything to Marjorie? Things began to make sense.

Another thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. I had seen for myself that Marjorie slept in the Alderman’s bed, so what more likely than that he confided in her from time to time? He had probably told her that Clement would be carrying a large sum of money on that particular visit to London, so all she had to do was notify her cousin in advance, sending a letter by the carter, and afterwards claim to be ignorant of the fact…

And yet… And yet… There were still pieces of the puzzle which did not fit. Marjorie could not possibly have foreseen the circumstances which would have deposited Clement outside the Crossed Hands inn, alone, on a dark and stormy evening. By rights, he should have parted from his sister at Paddington village and ridden on to the Baptist’s Head with Ned Stoner. My brain felt addled, but one fact stood out clearly, and I glanced down at the letter I was holding. At least, I now had a reason for entering the Crossed Hands inn, which not even Martin Trollope himself could quarrel with.

A hand descended heavily on my shoulder and a guttural voice spoke angrily in my ear.