Кейт Седли - Death and the Chapman

The noise of the thunder made us all jump. Marjorie, coming to her senses, realized that the rain was driving in through the open door and, with a cluck of annoyance, got up to shut it, stirring the pot of stew at the same time. ‘All this talk,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m forgetting my duties. A wonder the meat hasn’t stuck to the bottom and burned.’

Neither Alison nor I paid her much attention. ‘Was it truly necessary,’ I asked, ‘for Ned to go with you? Even without him, there would still have been three grown men protecting you and your maid.’

‘You forget,’ Alison replied patiently, ‘that it was a very dangerous time just then. The Earl of Warwick had brought King Henry out of the Tower and proclaimed him rightful King again. The sanctuaries were overflowing with King Edward’s followers, and there were many not even in sanctuary, but hiding in the city. And it was only a matter of weeks since the execution of the Earl of Worcester. My uncle told me he had never seen the Londoners in such a restless, feverish state of excitement. He said the number of crimes was rising daily.’

I remembered that even we, in our seclusion at Glastonbury, had heard some rumours of the terrible mob violence which had occurred in London at the execution of King Edward’s Constable. The Earl of Worcester had been nick-named the Butcher of England, after he had once had rebels’ bodies as well as their heads impaled on stakes, and had been hated by the people ever since. But even that, had said our informant, an itinerant friar, could not wholly explain the ferocity of the Londoners, who had all but succeeded in tearing the prisoner to pieces on his way to the scaffold. It was the only occasion the friar could recall when an execution had had to be postponed while captive and gaolers took refuge for a night in the Fleet prison. So I supposed there had been sufficient reason for John Weaver to be concerned about the safety of his niece, and to have alarmed his men enough for them to have talked Ned into going with them. That way, they were not solely responsible for the safety of their master’s guest. Rob, in any case, was to stay with Alison and her maid.

The housekeeper busied herself with making a junket. ‘Your father will be home soon,’ she remarked, nodding at Alison. ‘It’s nearly supper-time.’

I was surprised. The four hours since noon and my meeting with Marjorie Dyer at the High Cross had passed so swiftly that I might almost have thought her mistaken had I not been able to hear the Vespers bell ringing from one of the nearby churches. Three hours to Compline, I thought automatically.

‘He won’t be here yet awhile.’ Alison glanced at me. ‘Well, that’s the story.’

I frowned. ‘You say that no one but your father and your brother himself knew how much money he was carrying. That may be true, but surely everyone concerned with the venture must have been aware that your brother had money on him, and a substantial sum at that, if it was known that you were going to London to buy your bride-clothes.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Alison’s voice rose sharply. ‘That a member of this household, or my uncle’s household, was in some way responsible for Clement’s disappearance?’

‘Yes, are you suggesting that?’ Marjorie echoed, her face bright red with indignation.

I realized guiltily that my thoughts had indeed been straying in that direction. Supposing Ned or Rob or either of John Weaver’s men were hand-in-glove with one of the many cut-throat bands of thieves and pickpockets who roamed the London streets, and had given their fellow criminals prior warning… But no! How could they, when no one could have foreseen the exact circumstances of Clement Weaver’s arrival; the casting of his horse’s shoe, which prevented his riding straight into the courtyard of the Baptist’s Head and the safety of Thomas Prynne’s welcoming arms. Nor could anyone have foretold that Ned would not be with him. The two women were right to be angry. I had not allowed myself time to consider the implications of my question.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was a foolish conclusion to jump to.’

‘And a false one!’ I wondered for a moment if Alison were about to withdraw her offer of a lodging for the night, but she went on: ‘I didn’t like the look of that place, the Crossed Hands inn.’

‘You think… You think it might have had something to do with your brother’s disappearance?’

She chewed her bottom lip. ‘I’ve no reason for saying so,’ she admitted reluctantly, after a pause. ‘My father and uncle made inquiries there, when they were searching for Clement, but the landlord and servants swore they had heard and seen nothing. There was no cause to doubt them. Nor was there anything to suggest that they were in any way connected with what had happened to Clement.’

‘But you think that they might have been lying?’

Alison shrugged. ‘I just felt there was something a little sinister about the place, that’s all. I’m probably being silly.’

I thought privately that she probably was. She had seen the inn under the most unfavourable conditions, late in the afternoon, in near darkness and pouring rain, when she was hungry and tired. And she had inevitably associated it with her brother‘s disappearance. It was the last time that she had seen him, standing beneath the flaring torchlight … Once again, the picture sprang, fully formed, into my mind.

I hesitated for a moment before putting my final question. It was a delicate one, and I felt for the second time that I could be putting my night’s billet by the kitchen fire at risk. Nevertheless, in spite of what Marjorie had said to me earlier, I felt compelled to ask it, if only for my own satisfaction. Wherever I slept, I should sleep the sounder for having tied up the loose ends of this problem. I have always disliked loose ends.

‘Is there any reason at all,’ I began cautiously, ‘why your brother would have … might have …? What I am trying to say is …’

Alison Weaver interrupted me. Her voice was like ice. ‘You’re asking me if Clement would have robbed his own father? The answer to that is no.’

I knew I should have left it there, but I persisted. I had to convince myself that she was telling the truth. ‘A great deal of money was involved. Young men have been known to succumb to sudden temptation.’

I expected her to fly into a rage, but, somewhat to my surprise, she answered my impertinence calmly enough. Calmly, but, I have to admit, coldly. ‘Clement and I love our father. He has never given us reason to do otherwise. My brother, particularly, has always been close to him and will take over the business when my father is too old to continue. There has never been any dissension between them.’

‘I’ve already told you that,’ the housekeeper reproached me.

‘I know.’ I was somewhat shamefaced. I could see she was hurt by my inability to accept her word, but I had needed confirmation. Alison had spoken with heartfelt sincerity and there had been no hesitation about her reply.

The silence grew around us, holding us, enclosing us. There was nothing more to be said. Like Marjorie, like Alison, for all that she had spoken of her brother just now as if he were still alive, I was convinced that Clement Weaver had been murdered. Whether his attackers were connected with the Crossed Hands inn or no – and I thought not – he had been set upon, robbed and killed that wet November afternoon last year and his body disposed of. In the fading light it would have been the work of a moment to slip a knife between his ribs. There would have been no sound, no cry, to carry as far as the Baptist’s Head and alert his waiting friend. And even if he had managed to call out, it was doubtful if he could have been heard above the noise of the rain. No, when all the facts were assembled, the answer was still the same; the simple answer, the obvious answer. Clement Weaver had been one of the hundreds of men and women who were murdered each year for the money which they might, or might not, be carrying. The world was a violent and dangerous place, as Abbot Selwood had warned me when I left the Abbey to seek my fortune, outside the safety of its walls.