Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

‘Oh, that!‘ He shrugged and shivered a little as the wind blew in through the open casement. ‘A waste of time, if you want my opinion. Shut that window, there’s a good lad.’ He frowned. ‘What’s it doing open?’

‘I needed some air,’ I explained. ‘I wasn’t feeling so well.’

Comprehension dawned in his eyes and he chuckled quietly. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Better get back to your bed now.’

As he turned away, I said: ‘I had to go downstairs, to the yard. You’d left the back door unlocked and unbolted.’

He shook his head. ‘Nonsense! You must be mistaken. I locked and bolted it myself. I always see to it personally before I come upstairs at night. With so many thieves about, I won’t risk leaving it to Abel. Young men are inclined to be careless.’

‘The door was open,’ I insisted. ‘I went into the yard to relieve myself, and it was unbolted.’

Thomas frowned again. ‘You’re absolutely certain? You didn’t imagine it? Wine fumes can be extremely potent and sometimes confuse the brain.’

‘No, I’m sure,’ I answered. ‘I’d been awake some while and was perfectly sober. But just now, through that window, I saw someone walking up the street to the Crossed Hands inn.’

‘At this hour?’ He sounded incredulous and, pushing past me, threw wide the casement again.

‘ Whoever it was has gone now, ‘ I told him. ‘He — or she — went into the inn.’

Thomas withdrew his head, once more closing and fastening the window. ‘Why do you say “she”? Did you think that it might have been a woman?’

‘It was impossible to tell. The person was wearing a long cloak with a hood.’

He gestured dismissively. ‘A late reveller, perhaps. A lot of respectable citizens break curfew and manage to avoid the Watch. It’s not difficult. I’ve done it myself.’ ‘I’m sure this wasn’t a reveller. There’s something suspicious about that place.’

Thomas smiled indulgently. ‘So you said before, but you haven’t really convinced me yet.’ He shivered again. ‘We’ll talk about this in the morning, if you want to, but for now, let’s get back to bed. I have to be up before cockcrow. I need my sleep.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t have kept you.’

‘Do you feel all right now?’

I nodded. ‘I gather Master Farmer arrived safely. I heard his horse in the stable, when I was outside in the yard.’ Thomas took a deep breath, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on here tonight, or if it’s all in your head, but there’s no horse but Master Parson’s in the stable. Master Farmer failed to arrive before curfew. He must be putting up for the night outside the city walls. We shan’t be seeing him now until tomorrow.’

I went back to bed but could not sleep, lying wide awake in the darkness. The throbbing in my head was now a dull ache, but I was no longer feeling sick. My stomach at last seemed able to cope with its burden.

Had I been wrong in thinking that I had heard a second horse? At the time I was sure that there were two in the stable, but I might have been mistaken. I had been shut inside the privy and had certainly not been at my brightest. Yet I could have sworn that one whinny had answered another. I got up and went over to the window, opening the shutters…

‘… horse. He says he heard it.’ It was Thomas Prynne’s voice, floating up to me from the yard below. I could just make out the faint glimmer of his candle.

‘I thought he was out cold until morning.’ It was Abel Sampson speaking this time. ‘Perhaps we’d better look round and make sure all’s well.’

Obviously, Thomas had been more disturbed by what I had told him than he let on, and had roused his partner to accompany him on a search of the inn and its premises. I closed the shutters softly and lay down again, first divesting myself of my shoes and tunic. The back door had definitely been open: I had not dreamed it. So, if Thomas was right and he had locked it, who could have drawn back the bolts, and why? And who was the person I had seen from the landing window, hurrying so furtively up the street and entering the Crossed Hands inn? Martin Trollope? The mysterious cook-maid? Matilda Ford? And who had he, or she, come to see at the Baptist’s Head? What, after all, did I know of Gilbert Parsons…?

My head was swimming, but pleasantly this time. I was by the Stour once more, making love to Bess. When I looked up, Alison Weaver and William Burnett were standing further along the bank, watching us. Alison said: ‘Leave Marjorie Dyer alone,’ and I saw that Bess had turned into the housekeeper. Alison smiled at the young man by her side, who was no longer her husband. She slid an arm about his neck. ‘This is my brother, Clement…’

I woke to find the shutters of my room now rimmed with a faded, rain-washed light. When I opened them, a chill wind hit me as it raced across the sky, blowing the clouds into an ever-changing vista of shapes. A spatter of rain drops touched my face, and the daylight which filtered between the neighbouring rooftops was murky and unwholesome. The weather had worsened during the latter part of the night. I shook myself free of the rags of sleep and the last, lingering echoes of my dream, put on my shoes and tunic, and made my way downstairs. The smell of frying bacon greeted me from the kitchen, and the fact that it made my mouth water and set my stomach rumbling proved that I was completely cured. The indisposition of the night had left me.

When I looked round the kitchen door I saw Thomas Prynne holding a skillet over the kitchen fire, in which he was cooking thick slabs of fat, salt bacon. On the table were a number of wooden bowls filled with oatmeal, liberally sprinkled with saffron, two big jugs of ale and a loaf of bread, half of it cut into slices. He turned his head at the sound of my footsteps and smiled.

‘Are you feeling better this morning?’

‘Well enough to do more than justice to your breakfast,’ I answered. ‘I’m just going to wash in the yard. By the way, did you and Abel discover anything after I’d gone back to bed?’ In reply to his questioning glance I went on: ‘I heard you talking under my window. I couldn’t really hear what you were saying, only a few words, but I gathered you were looking around.’

Thomas speared a slice of bacon with his knife and deftly turned it over. The fat spluttered and sizzled in the pan. ‘No, nothing,’ he said, ‘but I can explain the unlocked door. Our other guest, Master Parsons, had earlier had the same call of nature as yourself, and had carelessly forgotten to bolt it after him. He confessed as much when I took him his mazer of ale at first light this morning.’

‘And the other horse?’ I queried, beginning to feel remarkably foolish.

‘A figment of your imagination, I’m afraid. There was only Master Parson’s Jessamy in the stable.’ Thomas’s smile deepened. ‘It’s as I said. Wine fumes can play strange tricks.’

Abel Sampson came into the kitchen, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. ‘God’s Teeth, I’m tired. I always am when my rest’s disturbed.’

I felt guilty and edged towards the door. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I said, ‘when I’ve washed.’

It was quiet in the courtyard, except for an occasional flurry of wind and the steady patter of the rain on the cobbles. Since childhood, I have always loved the early morning, the sense of calm before the hurrying hours gather themselves together into the urgency of midday, slide towards the boredom of late afternoon, then surge, rejuvenated, into the bustle of evening. It’s a time for quiet and reflection, with a whole new day stretching ahead of me; an undiscovered territory; a promise as yet unfulfilled. I raised a bucket of ice-cold water from the well and bathed my face and hands. No doubt Master Parsons was wallowing in a hot tub in front of the fire in his bedchamber, but then, he was paying for his room. I returned to the kitchen and my breakfast.