Kate SEDLEY - The Holy Innocents

Oliver Cozin glanced briefly at his brother, and a silent question and answer passed between them. Then he asked, ‘What would you say to a house, all to yourself?’ I stared at him in perplexity, and he went on, ‘Oh, don’t imagine that I’m offering you luxury. The house has stood empty these past two months, dust and cobwebs gathering everywhere. I am a lawyer and it belongs to a client of mine, for whom I am acting in the purchase of a property hereabouts. He was with me this morning, and expressed anxiety about his previous domicile, the house just mentioned, which remains unoccupied in spite of all his attempts to find a tenant for it. In normal times, such a fact would not trouble him, but with these outlaws roaming the district, he fears that they may penetrate the town and steal his goods.’

‘Then why does he not remain there himself?’

The lawyer’s tone sharpened. ‘Chapman, you either wish to accept my offer or you do not. Nothing else concerns you.’ I hesitated. The prospect of spending a night in the comfort of a well furnished house, and one, moreover, I should have all to myself, was tempting. Yet there was something here which made me uneasy, and my instincts bade me refuse.

‘But I shall be gone from Totnes in the morning,’ I cavilled. ‘What good will my protection be for a single night? The outlaws could strike tomorrow. Besides, how do you know that you can trust me? I might make off with some of your client’s goods.’

Oliver Cozin was affronted. ‘Do you think me such a fool that I can’t tell an honest man when I see one? As for your other question, one night is better than none. As the blessed St Martin said, half a cloak is preferable to no cloak at all.’

I glanced at Thomas Cozin, standing at his brother’s side, the two grey figures so alike that it was as though I had drunk too much ale and was seeing double. At present, their faces were expressionless, although there was, perhaps, just the tiniest flicker of worry in Thomas’s eyes. He did not have a lawyer’s ability to hide his emotions completely.

Was I imagining things? After all, what had they offered me but a comfortable lodging for the night? It would be foolish to refuse, even though I did not believe for a second that the outlaws would risk coming into the town. Such an occurrence had reality only in the fevered imagination of the townspeople.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I accept. And thank you.’

It was Oliver who led me to a house north of the Shambles, on the opposite side of the High Street, where it curves towards the West Gate. He unlocked the door and preceded me inside, picking his way carefully across the dust-laden floor and wrinkling his nose fastidiously at the musty smell.

‘I suppose I’d better show you the lie of the place,’ he said, a trifle grudgingly, as we stood in the stone-flagged passageway. He pushed open a door to his right. ‘This is the downstairs parlour, where my old friend and client, Sir Jasper Crouchback, conducted most of his business, and behind it is the counting-house. The stairs in the corner here lead to the upper parlour and main bedchambers, none of which need concern you, for if the outlaws come, they will be sure to enter on the lower level. Follow me, and I will conduct you to the kitchens and the outhouses.’

We walked along the passageway to a stout, oaken door at the far end, now bolted and barred. With my superior height, I was able to render assistance in withdrawing the bolts from their wards, and by tugging with all my strength on the iron handle of the latch, I finally managed to loosen the wooden leaf, which, swollen by the recent spell of wet weather, had stuck in its frame. We stepped out into a paved courtyard, enclosed on either side by high stone walls. Ahead of us was another block of buildings, whose upper storey was connected to the one at our backs by a roofed-in wooden gallery, supported on struts and running the length of the right-hand wall.

The kitchen, into which I was shown by Oliver Cozin, was much like all other kitchens I have ever been in, with a table in the centre, a water barrel, shelves of pots, pans and suchlike cooking utensils, and ovens built into the thickness of the fireplace brick. A ladder gave access to the storerooms and sleeping quarters of the servants above, while a door in one corner, through which we proceeded, brought us to the workshops, hen-coops, pigsties and stables. The latter had stalls for two horses which, along with the rest of the outbuildings, were again protected by high walls, and approached by an alleyway running between the house and its neighbour. An iron-studded, oaken gate kept out intruders.

After I had looked my fill, we retraced our steps.

‘I suggest,’ the lawyer said, ‘that you sleep in the downstairs parlour and keep a candle burning all night so that its light can be glimpsed, if necessary, through the chinks in the shutters. As you have seen, the outhouses are empty, and robbers, having discovered as much, will naturally assume the house to be unoccupied as well, and venture around to the front. Signs of life might deter them from forcing an entry.’

‘And if they don’t?’ I inquired ironically. ‘What am I supposed to do then?’

The lawyer eyed me up and down. ‘A great lad like you must be able to defend himself, and is probably used to doing so. You carry a good, thick cudgel and I presume you know how to use it.’

I regarded him straitly. ‘These men are killers, or so I’ve been told. I don’t imagine a cudgel to be of much use against them.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Oliver Cozin grimaced.

‘Chapman, you are, I should guess, a sensible man, and of greater intelligence than is suggested by your calling. You do not believe, any more than I do, that the outlaws will penetrate beyond the town’s defences. Such men do not like enclosed spaces. There is nowhere to run. But my client, Master Colet, who is not a clever man’ – there was a slight note of contempt in the lawyer’s tone – ‘and who is gripped by the general hysteria, fears for his property, and so I do what I can, even if it is just for a night.’

I frowned. ‘I thought you said that this house belonged to your old friend, Sir Jasper Crouchback?’

Oliver inclined his head. ‘And so it did, once. But he has been dead these five years, and now it is in the possession of his son-in-law, Master Eudo Colet.’

There was a reserve in both his tone and manner that deterred me from asking too many questions. Nevertheless, I could not stop myself from probing a little further.

‘Surely,’ I said, ‘even if this Master Colet and his lady, Sir Jasper’s daughter, are not prepared to remain in the house themselves while they conclude the purchase of another property, there can be no shortage of tenants who would be more than willing to occupy it for them. Indeed, such an arrangement would earn them money. So why are they forced to rely on the good offices of a passing traveller?’

Once again, the lawyer’s eyes grew wary, while he tried unsuccessfully to appear frank and open.

‘My client is a widower, and he does not wish to rent out the house. He wishes to sell. It is only the scourge of these outlaws which has made him uneasy about it standing empty.’

I shook my head. ‘That does not answer my objection. As Master Colet, for reasons not known to me, is unwilling to remain here himself, then why does he not sell at once?’

‘Because a purchaser has not yet been found. Now. let that suffice. You ask too many questions about matters which do not concern you. You have free lodgings for the night. Be content.’

I bowed my head in submission and the lawyer seemed relieved. ‘I will leave you now. Here is the key. It fits all locks, should you wish to go out before curfew. You will want food, I daresay. But I saw a supply of candles on a shelf in the kitchen, so you will not need to buy those, at least.’