Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

‘Vy don’t you move? You are obstructing the vaggons. ‘

I turned to find one of the Easterlings glaring at me, and I also became aware that several of the carters were shouting abuse. I was blocking the traffic. I mumbled hasty apologies and made my way back to Thames Street, resolving on no more short cuts. I was not yet familiar enough with the London streets to attempt them, so I kept straight on until I came to the corner of Crooked Lane and the Crossed Hands inn. My eyes raised themselves instinctively to that window to the right of the courtyard entrance, but it was firmly closed and there was no sign of life behind it. No shadow, however faint, was silhouetted against the oiled parchment. Silence reigned.

Stifling a feeling of disappointment, I hitched up my pack and turned under the archway, clutching Marjorie Dyer’s letter like a talisman.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the kitchen on the north side of the courtyard; all the shutters stood wide open and there was a great clatter of pots and pans, as well as a strong smell of cooking; not the single, delicious aroma that emanated from the kitchen of the Baptist’s Head, but a mixture of scents; roasting meat, rising bread, simmering broth, together with stale fish and a whiff of garlic. It failed to whet my appetite, and I thought with contentment of the fragrant meal awaiting me a few yards further down the street.

There were plenty of people in the courtyard, stabling horses for the night, drawing water from the well, carrying food up the outside stairs to one of the bedchambers, but, by great good fortune, no sign of Martin Trollope. I walked over to the kitchen door and stepped inside.

For a while no one took any notice of me; indeed, I doubt if they were even aware of my presence, until the scullion, a pale-faced boy with a constant sniff, looked up from pounding some pine cones in a mortar and asked in a nasal whine: ‘Wotch you doin’ ‘ere? Wotch you want? The landlord don’t allow no pedlars.’

His words attracted the attention of others, and a fat woman with flour up to her elbows shouted: ‘Get off with you! Go on! Get out! Lad’s right. Master Trollope don’t allow no peddlin’. This is a respectable inn, this is.’

‘I’m not selling,’ I answered with a virtuous air of injured innocence. I waved the letter. ‘This is for the cook, Matilda Ford, from her cousin in Bristol.’

There was a moment’s silence while all heads turned in the direction of a table at the far end of the room, where a woman and two girls were preparing vegetables and skinning rabbits. The woman stared suspiciously at me for a second, then, wiping her hands on her apron, came slowly towards me.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘And why have you brought my letter? Marjorie usually sends it by the carter.‘ She was tall for a woman, but small-boned, with wisps of foxy-coloured hair escaping from beneath her cap; not at all how I would have expected a kinswoman of Marjorie’s to look. And yet she reminded me of someone. Was it Alison Weaver, now Lady Burnett? Perhaps I was wrong in my assumption that Matilda Ford was not related to the Weavers, but belonged to the other side of Marjorie’s family.

I explained my involvement as briefly as I could, but was met with nothing except a scowl as one thin hand shot out and grabbed the paper.

‘That fool of a carter had no business entrusting my letter to a stranger,’ she snapped. ‘All right! You’ve given it to me. Now get on about your business.’ Before I had time to protest at such uncivil treatment, her head jerked round to address the girls behind her. ‘And what are you great gormless lumps sniggering at? Get on with your work this instant! You know we’re shorthanded since Nell was dismissed. Do you hear me?’

The girls looked sulky. One, who plainly had more courage than the other, demanded truculently: ‘Well then, if we’re short ‘anded, why don’t that new girl come down and pull ‘er weight. Pretendin’ she’s ill all the time an’ stayin’ upstairs! She ain’t no more ill than I am. An’ the master lettin’ ‘er get away wiv it! It ain’t fair!’

‘You mind your own business, my girl,’ Matilda Ford retorted sourly, ‘or you‘ll find yourself turned off. If Master Trollope says she’s to be left alone until she’s better, that’s nothing to do with you.’ She added, muttering under her breath: ‘Though why he lets himself be taken in by such a baggage — ’ She broke off abruptly, recollecting my presence. ‘Are you still here? What are you waiting for? You’ve given me the letter, so get on about your own affairs.’ She went back to the table, picked up a wicked- looking knife and started on another rabbit. The girls, more sullen than ever, continued chopping vegetables.

Everyone else ignored me, so I had no excuse to prolong my stay. But I was intrigued by this kitchen-maid who was exempt from duty, even though they were shorthanded in the kitchens. Such concern for the health of his cook-maids somehow did not fit the Martin Trollope I had met that morning. Something smelled, and it was not just the fish which was being gutted by the scullion. I walked thoughtfully out into the cooler air of the courtyard, glancing about me. A big pile of logs was stacked against a wall outside the kitchen door and, loosening the straps of my pack, I slipped it from my shoulders. The shadow cast by the logs hid it from all but the most inquisitive eyes. Then I strolled across the yard, unnoticed in all the bustle of a new arrival, and mounted the outside stair to the balcony. Three doors opened off this into what I presumed were the main guest-bedchambers, but facing me at the far end was a fourth door, leading, I hoped, to the inn’s private quarters. I sent a quick, furtive glance down into the courtyard, found I was still unobserved, and with a few swift steps and a lift of the latch was in a narrow corridor, a continuation of the balcony, but now walled in, with a door to my left and a window to my right, the latter covered in thick oiled parchment. Furtively, I opened the casement and peered outside. I was looking down into Crooked Lane where it joined Thames Street, and, glancing to my right, I could see the entrance to the courtyard. This, undoubtedly, was the window which had attracted my attention early that morning, and I speculated who the person was who had been standing here. My guess — and I felt almost certain that it was correct-was that it was the missing cook-maid.

Kitchen servants were never allowed above stairs, their place of work also being their sleeping quarters. It was as strange, therefore, as it was intriguing that one of their number should not only be permitted to plead illness, but, even allowing that her sickness might be genuine, be cossetted in seclusion until she was better. And particularly by Martin Trollope. And if the girl were his mistress, which was highly unlikely, why would he wish to conceal her? It was as though her presence at the inn was a secret. Yet not completely: Matilda Ford and her two assistants, at least, were aware of the young woman’s existence. They regarded her as having come to the Crossed Hands inn to work and were angry at what they saw as her shirking. But where did the girl fit in with Clement Weaver’s and Sir Richard Mallory’s disappearance? That was something which I had yet to fathom.

I opened the door on the left-hand side of the corridor and peeped inside, but to my bitter disappointment there was no one in the room. The room itself was small and scantily furnished; a truckle bed, neatly made up with clean, lavender-scented linen, a joint stool beside the fireless hearth, and a chest, probably containing clothes, were the only items in there. The thing which immediately drew my eyes, however, was a piece of embroidery flung down on the bed, as though it had only recently been abandoned. I picked it up carefully and examined it, wondering, as I did so, at the delicacy of the design; at the fragile, muted tones shading from gold to palest green, from egg-shell blue to white. This was an example of the famous Opus Anglicanum, learned by every woman of birth and standing, and eagerly sought after by the rest of Europe. These lovely patterns and exquisite colours were prized even among the treasures of the Papal Court. And here again, of course, I write from knowledge acquired much later in my life: at the time, I only knew that this had to be the handiwork of a gentlewoman. The rough, chapped hands of a peasant woman, like my mother, could never have made such tiny, fragile stitches.