Кейт Седли - Death and the Chapman

So what choice did I have, but to continue with my quest? Perhaps inspiration would come to me when I had food inside me.

As I rounded the corner of Crooked Lane, by the Crossed Hands inn, I could see a great deal of bustle in the courtyard. A lady wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak was being helped to alight from a travelling waggon, while a gentleman, equally richly dressed and presumably her husband, was giving the ostlers precise instructions as to the stabling of his horses. Martin Trollope himself was much in evidence to welcome his obviously distinguished guests, and quite a few of the inn’s servants were on display to create the right impression. In fact, so much attention was being concentrated on the new arrivals that it occurred to me I might enter the inn and no one would even notice me. Putting my theory to the test, I slipped my empty pack from my back just inside the archway, walked quietly past Martin Trollope, so close that I almost touched him, mounted the stairs to the balcony and let myself in through the door at the far end.

All was as quiet here as it had been on my previous visit; no sign of any servants going about their duties, only a silence which, to my over-stretched imagination, seemed deeply menacing. Stealthily I tried the latch of the door on my left, but this time it did not open. I pushed again, gently, but it was bolted from inside.

I crossed to the window opposite, set it wide and leaned out, twisting my neck until I could see down into the courtyard. There, all was as before, with Martin Trollope still attending to the orders and wishes of the new arrivals and two of the servants now unloading a large travelling chest from the back of the waggon. I withdrew my head and quietly closed the casement. If the gentleman’s loud, blustering tones, and his lady’s softer, but equally penetrating whine were anything to judge by, they would be the focus of attention for some time to come. I crossed back to the door and once more tried the latch, but it remained unyielding.

I put my lips to the crack between the door and its jamb and whispered as loudly as I dared: ‘Is anyone in there?’ There was a long silence before I heard the faintest of movements, like the rustle of a woman’s gown as it brushed against the rushes on the floor. I whispered again, only this time a little louder: ‘Is anyone in there?’

I was rewarded by a slight cough, but once more, this sign of life was succeeded by silence. I rattled the latch carefully, then decided on a change of tactics. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said. ‘I’m not one of the inn servants. I’m a friend. I want to help you.’

Again I heard the rustle of skirts, then a faint breathing on the other side of the door. ‘Who are you?’ asked a woman’s voice, rapid and low, as though afraid that we might be discovered at any moment. ‘What’s your name?’

‘My name’s Roger. I’m a chapman. I think I saw you at the window yesterday morning. I thought… I don’t know why, but I thought you might be in trouble. Held against your will… If I’m being foolish, say so.’

Another long pause followed my words, before the same voice whispered: ‘Can I really trust you?’

But I had only just time enough to whisper back: ‘Absolutely!’ before there was a footfall on the little, twisting stair at the end of the corridor and one of the inn‘s chambermaids appeared, carrying a pile of clean linen, evidently destined for the room where my prisoner was held.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘Does the master know that you’re here?’

I thought quickly. ‘I’m looking for one of the guests,’ I said. ‘A Master Gilbert Parsons. This is the Baptist’s Head hostelry, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s down the street a pace. This is the Crossed Hands inn.’ The girl snorted derisively. ‘Master Trollope wouldn’t thank you for mistaking that poky place for this. Now, be off with you! Before,’ she added shrewdly, ‘I bother to find out if you’re lying or not.’

I had no choice but to leave, cursing my bad luck. I sensed that even if I hung around the inn and waited until the coast was clear again, I should get nothing more from my captive. She had been nervous enough before the interruption: she would be doubly so now. So I thanked the chambermaid with a winning smile, and let myself out through the balcony door. Down in the courtyard nothing much had changed. The loud-voiced gentleman and his insistently complaining wife were still claiming all Martin Trollope’s attention, and as I paused to catch my breath before making my escape, I heard the woman say: ‘My lord of Clarence himself recommended this inn to us on the last occasion he was our guest in Devonshire. He would be displeased to know that we are being offered an inferior bedchamber at the back of the house.’

‘Quite right! Quite right, my dear!’ Her husband endorsed these sentiments with a beefy slap on Master Trollope’s shoulder. ‘Turn someone else out, if necessary, landlord! We shouldn’t like to have to complain to His Grace, but if needs must …’

The rest of his words were lost to me as I was struck by a blinding light. St Paul on the road to Damascus did not receive so great a revelation as came to me then, standing on the balcony of the Crossed Hands inn. I knew who was hidden in that room, even without seeing her face. But I had seen it, of that I was certain; in Corn Street, in Bristol, five months ago. I recalled what Bess Woodward had said to me; that Martin Trollope was the cousin of a dependant of the Duke of Clarence. And with that recollection came the memory of Philip Lamprey’s words: ‘I did over ’ear someone say as ’ow ’e was a greedy bastard. Willin’ to do anythink fer money.’ Thomas Prynne had told me: ‘A great deal of trade at the Crossed Hands is by recommendation of the Duke himself. I wish I could boast as much in the way of royal support.’

So Martin Trollope owed my lord of Clarence many favours. The Crossed Hands inn would therefore be the natural place for the latter to choose if he wanted to hide his sister-in-law from his brother. Who would think of looking for one of the highest born ladies of the realm in a common inn, disguised as a cookmaid? Not that I imagined Lady Anne had been allowed anywhere near the kitchens, but it would have been impossible to keep her presence a complete secret from the other servants. Hence the story that the new girl was ill and had to stay in her room. How long this falsehood could be perpetuated it was difficult to guess, but no doubt the Duke of Clarence had made further arrangements for Lady Anne’s concealment if anyone at the Crossed Hands became suspicious. But he had reckoned without me, the outsider.

I slipped quietly down the stairs, passed once again within an inch of Martin Trollope’s back, grabbed my pack and stick and was out into Crooked Lane without giving myself time to think of the danger. Then, my heart thudding against my ribs, I made my way thankfully to the safety of the Baptist’s Head to consult Thomas Prynne.

‘You’re sure of the facts, lad? Absolutely certain?’

I didn’t blame Thomas Prynne or Abel Sampson for not entirely believing me. I found the situation difficult to believe myself, so I had not overstretched their credulity by repeating my other suspicions regarding Martin Trollope and the Crossed Hands inn. I knew now what I was going to do about that, but there was the rescue of Lady Anne to be accomplished first.

There were still a few hours left before curfew. The early October day had latterly been a fine one and no obscuring clouds added to the encroaching darkness. I had eaten hurriedly at the kitchen table while telling my story to my two hosts, and regretting, busy as my mind was with other things, that I could not do more justice to Thomas’s cooking. Beneath their initial reluctance to accept my story, I could sense interest and excitement at such events happening in their neighbourhood. There was an air of tension in the kitchen.