Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

As I stood staring at my find, I was aware of a sudden flurry of movement on the periphery of my vision. The next instant, a hand grabbed my shoulder.

‘You again!‘ It was Martin Trollope, his face livid with anger. ‘What in the name of Satan are you doing sneaking about my inn, prying into things which don’t concern you?’ He dealt me a swingeing blow, and, big though I am, he almost knocked me off my feet.‘ I’ve a good mind to call the Watch!’

I don’t know what made me take a chance. My brain felt addled by the buffet to my head, and my cars were singing as though a whole aviary of birds was inside them. But I managed to retain my balance and said, with as much dignity as I could muster: ‘Go on, then! Call them.’

Trollope’s eyes narrowed and he looked as if he might hit me a second time. But all he said, through lips stiff with rage, was: ‘Get out! Now, before I change my mind. And consider yourself bloody lucky!’

‘You’re not going to call the Watch, then?’ I asked, as insolently as I dared.

‘I’ve told you! Get out! ’ He spoke through clenched teeth and his right hand was bunched into an enormous fist.

I’m not a coward; being the size I am, I’ve never had need to be. But he was a very big man, and there seemed little to be gained by picking a quarrel with him on his own territory. He had only to shout to bring half a dozen of the inn’s servants running to his aid, and I should be thrown ignominiously into the street, probably acquiring a black eye or a cut lip in the process. It was far better that I went quietly while I could. Nevertheless, it was interesting how reluctant he was to call the Watch.

I replaced the embroidery on the bed and Martin Trollope became aware of it for the first time. His eyes bulged and his face, or what was visible of it above his beard, turned a dull, bloated red, giving the game away completely. This was not the work of some woman guest who was staying at the inn, or he would have been indifferent to its discovery. This had been done by the mysterious kitchen-maid, who so obviously was not one.

I raised my eyes and smiled into his, letting him know that I was conscious of this fact and had realized its implications. He gave a snort of stifled rage and thrust his face forward on its short bull-neck, pushing it so close to mine that our noses were almost touching.

‘You breathe a single word of my affairs outside this inn and you’ll be sorry your mother ever bore you! That’s a promise, and don’t think for one moment that I can’t keep it.’

I was not so foolish. I had no doubt that a character like Martin Trollope had sufficiently powerful connections both among the nobility and the criminal fraternity of the city to make it good. It was something I might have to risk in future, but not just at present. With a sense of relief at being able to postpone the evil day, I edged past him towards the door. Two minutes later I was again standing in the courtyard, humping my pack on to my back, Martin Trollope glaring balefully at me from the balcony. There was no chance for me to return to the kitchen for another word, however brief, with Matilda Ford, and I had to content myself with a defiant wave at the landlord as I passed under the archway and emerged once more into Crooked Lane, turning my feet in the direction of the Baptist’s Head.

It was now well past the hour of Vespers. The brilliance of the morning with its sparkle of frost had faded to a uniform greyness as daylight waned. A thin layer of cloud, stretched like muslin, obscured the sun; the houses appeared flat and two-dimensional as though cut from paper against the darkening sky; the bustle of Thames Street was no more than the roaring of some distant ocean on a remote and foreign shore, the sound muted by the overhanging houses.

As I covered the yards between the Crossed Hands and the Baptist’s Head, I wondered whether to reveal what I now knew about Marjorie Dyer to Thomas Prynne, or to keep my own counsel. What, after all, did I know for certain? Not enough to make accusations. And yet, I felt that I would be glad of his opinion on what appeared to me to be her very suspicious conduct. But then again, he might be incapable, or at least reluctant, to pass judgement on a friend. It was a dilemma I had still not resolved by the time I reached the inn. I decided to wait and see what happened; to see how he responded to a hint on my part that Marjorie might not be as innocent as she seemed.

The smell of the stew was even more delicious, as though some delicate herb or spice had been added since my departure. I sniffed appreciatively as Thomas met me just inside the doorway.

‘Sorrel,’ he said, laughing. ‘I always add a little to my soups and stews. How did your day go? Did you make any money?’

I grinned and jangled the coins in my pouch. ‘Enough to buy me the best supper you have, breakfast in the morning and pay for my night’s lodging, as well. Tomorrow, I hope to do even better.’

He threw up a hand in protest. ‘I’ve told you, any friend of Marjorie Dyer’s sleeps here free.’ He jerked his head towards the door at the far end of the passage. ‘The well’s in the yard, near the stable.’

I thanked him, left my pack and stick inside the ale-room and made my way outside. I drew up a bucket of ice- cold water, bathed my face and hands, shook off the surplus drops and let my skin dry in the chill evening air. The red roan shifted restlessly in its stall, kicking with its back hooves against the flimsy door. I guessed that it belonged to Gilbert Parsons, the hapless litigant mentioned by Thomas and Abel.

By the time I returned indoors, Gilbert had put in an appearance; a painfully thin man with the melancholy expression of a bloodhound. He was seated in the ale- room, eating his supper, which, as well as the stew, consisted of bread and cheese, a dish of rampion — the root boiled and served in a thick white sauce — a dish of orache, also boiled, and to follow, a sillabub decorated with sugared almonds. Just the sight and smell of it all made my mouth water, and I hoped fervently that we would be eating as well in the kitchen. We did, washing everything down with a fine Bordeaux wine, the like of which I had never tasted before and rarely have since. Thomas Prynne had not exaggerated when he said that he and his partner bought only the best to put in their cellar. Even my untutored palate could appreciate its velvety texture and contrast it with the rough red wine we novices had occasionally been given to drink at the abbey. I’m afraid I made a pig of myself that mealtime, gorging until I could eat and drink no more.

‘I’m glad he’s able to pay for his food,’ Abel remarked to Thomas, ‘or we might have found ourselves sadly out of pocket.’

Thomas nodded in agreement. ‘You’re a good trencherman,’ he said, addressing me. ‘Mind you, you’ve a big frame to keep going. It’s natural you should be a hearty eater.’

I smiled at him. Or at least I tried to smile, but my lips refused to obey me. The heat of the kitchen, the enormous meal, but above all, the wine to which I was unaccustomed, had all combined to make me stupid and sleepy. I gave a prodigious yawn and stretched my arms until the bones cracked. I should have liked to go to bed, but it was not yet dark and curfew had still not sounded.

‘Come and sit by the fire,’ Thomas Prynne suggested, indicating what I presumed to be his own chair, as it had arms. ‘You can sleep off the effects of your supper while we prepare for Master Farmer from Northampton. He must be here soon if he wants to avoid putting up for the night outside the city. The gates will shut within the hour. Abel, be a good fellow and look outside to see if he’s coming.’

I watched Abel leave the kitchen through a sleep-drugged haze, sinking into the chair and stretching my legs out before me. My eyelids were already closing. In half an hour or so, I promised myself, I would go into the yard to get some air. But for the present, replete, I was content to let food and wine and the heat of the fire do their work. I drifted over the borderline of sleep.