Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

While I swallowed my oatmeal and bacon, I discussed the night’s events — or non-events, as they had turned out to be — with Thomas and Abel.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘to have disturbed you for no reason.’

‘No harm done,’ Thomas answered thickly, through a mouthful of bread and honey. ‘And if the yard door had been left open all night, we could have been robbed. It wouldn’t have taken a good thief long to discover the trapdoor and stairs to the cellar.’ He swallowed his food and asked: ‘What are your plans? Do you intend returning here again this evening?’

I nodded. ‘I’m stopping in London for a while yet. I haven’t begun to get to the bottom of Clement Weaver’s disappearance.’

I saw the two men exchange glances before Abel said: ‘There isn’t any mystery, you know, except for what’s in the Alderman’s imagination.’

I accepted another slice of bacon and set about it heartily. ‘What about Sir Richard Mallory?’ I asked him.

Abel shrugged. ‘This is an evil city. We hear of robberies and murders every day of our lives, don’t we, Thomas?’

The landlord raised his eyebrows in agreement. ‘And in the late unsettled times, things have naturally been worse. To my way of thinking, both Clement and this Sir Richard were set upon and killed, and their bodies disposed of in the river. I’m sorry if I sound hard, because Alfred Weaver is a friend of mine and I’ve known both the children since they were little. I was as upset as anyone by Clement’s disappearance and the distress that it caused his family. But I don’t allow sentiment to cloud my common sense. I don’t believe, as his father does, that he might still be alive somewhere, or as you seem to do, that his death has something to do with Martin Trollope and the Crossed Hands inn. It was dark and stormy, black as the grave, the night he was due here and never arrived. The sort of night when every criminal in the city is up and about his evil business. I wasn’t worried when Clement didn’t show up. I thought he must have changed his mind and gone to his uncle’s instead, along with young Alison. It wasn’t until Ned Stoner rode in just after curfew that I realized that anything was wrong.’

‘What did you do?’ I asked him.

Thomas shrugged and looked at Abel, who obligingly continued for him.

‘We — all three of us — set out to search for him, of course. But there was nothing much we could do that night. It was too dark and wet, as Tom’s already mentioned. As soon as it was daylight, we searched again and alerted the Watch. Ned Stoner rode out to Farringdon Ward to discover if by some chance Master Weaver was there, but none of us had much hope of the outcome. Neither Tom nor I had any doubts by that time that the boy was dead, especially when we learned what sum of money he had had about him.’

‘That was much later, of course, ‘ Thomas said, beginning to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘ After the Alderman’s arrival. And now, we all have work to do, so let’s get on and do it.’ He paused beside my stool and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave it, lad, that’s my advice. Don’t waste your time hanging around in London. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for Roger Chapman’s wares. However hard it may sound, Clement Weaver and Richard Mallory are dead. Forget them.’

But I had no intention of forgetting either Clement Weaver or Sir Richard Mallory. I did not say so to Thomas Prynne, however. There was something in both his and his partner‘s manner which indicated clearly that they did not wish to be troubled with the matter. And why should they? I asked myself, as I left the kitchen and crossed the passage to the ale-room in order to collect my pack and stick. They were convinced, as I had been earlier, that the two men had been set upon by thieves, robbed and murdered and their bodies disposed of in the river. They were busy people, and had no time for less credible theories. Furthermore, I had not told them of Marjorie Dyer’s duplicity. But, then again, was it duplicity? It was not a crime for her to have a cousin who worked at the Crossed Hands inn. It was simply that she had apparently not mentioned the fact to the Alderman…

Gilbert Parsons was in the ale-room, eating his breakfast, his lean, sad face wearing the same abstracted expression. He turned his soulful, watery blue eyes towards me and said in a hollow voice: ‘Nuncupative wills are the Devil’s handiwork, and lawyers the Devil’s instruments. Never trust them, and never pin your faith in litigation.’

‘I don’t intend to do so,’ I answered cheerfully, then paused, frowning. ‘You haven’t seen my pack and stick here anywhere, have you?’

It was Thomas who answered my question, as he came bustling along the passage to see if his guest wanted more ale.

‘They’re in your chamber. We took them up, out of our way, after we’d carried you to bed last night.’ He gave his deep throaty chuckle. ‘You mean you didn’t notice them? You must still have some of that wine clogging your brain, my lad!’

I thanked him, looking suitably sheepish, and mounted the stairs once again. The doors of all the bedchambers now stood open, revealing the interiors of the rooms. My natural curiosity was immediately aroused and I looked inside the other two, noting appreciatively the difference in furnishing. The largest of the three chambers, the one which should have been occupied by Master Farmer from Northampton, contained a huge four-poster bed, hung with a tester and curtains of rubbed, but nonetheless good, red velvet. Beside it was a small oak cupboard, on top of which still reposed a jug of ale and a loaf of bread: the ‘all-night’, placed there the previous evening for the guest who had failed to arrive. In addition, there was a wax candle in a pewter holder, and a tinder-box. A fine oak chest was ranged against one wall and had been opened in readiness to accommodate the traveller’s clothes and perfumed with lavender and spices. A mirror of polished metal hung above it, and, in the farthest corner from the bed, stood a night-commode. The rushes scattered on the floor were redolent with the scent of dried flowers. A pile of logs lay ready to be lit on the hearth. A room, indeed, for the privileged guest.

The chamber next to it was Master Parson’s. A smaller bed with tester and curtains of unbleached linen was still unmade, the sheets crumpled and tumbled, and a deep hollow down the centre of the goose-feather mattress. The candle beside the bed was only of tallow, and the clothes-chest, like the commode, was made of elm wood. The rushes on the floor had lost their perfume and were plainly two or three days old. Which brought me to my own room, with nothing but a truckle bed and the battered oak chest, one of its hinges broken and the other missing. Smiling ruefully, I looked about me for my pack and stick.

They had been placed in a corner of the room which was always in shadow, and explained why I had previously overlooked them. I was relieved to know that I was not still suffering from the effects of last night’s wine. I humped the one on to my back and grasped the other, only to find myself unexpectedly wishing that the stout ash plant was a slender willow wand, that magical staff which protects travellers from harm. I shook my head vigorously to clear it of such nonsensical thoughts. What danger could I possibly be in?

Downstairs, Gilbert Parsons was getting ready to set out for the law courts, while Abel was busy removing dirty dishes from the table. Thomas was nowhere to be seen, but the trapdoor to the cellar had been heaved back against the floor, revealing a flight of worn stone steps. I nodded at Abel and handed him the money for last night’s supper. ‘I’ll be back again this evening,’ I said.