Death and the Chapman Page 11

  Abel Sampson was also a great deal younger than I had expected; not much above twenty-four or -five summers I guessed. He had sandy hair and eyebrows, pale blue eyes and bloodless, almost invisible lips which looked as though they did not know how to smile. Humourless, I decided. And here again, as so often in the past, my first impressions were wrong. In those days, as I have said somewhere before in this tale, I was not a good judge of character. I jumped too far and too fast to false conclusions. Abel Sampson suddenly smiled, and, like Richard of Gloucester, whom I had seen earlier that same day, his face seemed to light up from within, turning him into a different person.

  ‘Is this the man we’ve been expecting?’ he asked his partner.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘No, no! I’m sure I told you that Master Farmer would not be arriving until late this evening.’ He spoke severely, obviously deploring this lapse of memory.

  Abel looked sheepish. ‘So you did,’ he agreed. He added, addressing me: ‘I have a terrible memory.’

  I laughed, getting to my feet and picking up my pack. ‘Then I’m in good company,’ I replied, ‘because I have, too.’ I turned to Thomas Prynne. ‘I’ll be off, now. I can’t afford to waste any more daylight. But I’ll be back for my supper. I hope to have made some money by then, so make it a large one.’

  ‘You shall have as much stew as you can eat,’ he promised. ‘In the kitchen with us, or in here with our guest, Master Parsons.’

  Before I could open my mouth, Abel had made the decision for me.

  ‘Eat with us,’ he advised, grinning. ‘The lugubrious Gilbert will be very poor company after yet another day wasted in the law courts.’

  I hoisted my pack on to my shoulders. ‘Precisely what I was intending to suggest myself.’ I moved towards the door of the ale-room. ‘Besides, there’s something I want to discuss with Master Prynne here.’

  ‘Call us Thomas and Abel,’ that worthy reproved me. ‘We’re on Christian name terms with any friend of Marjorie Dyer.’

  Abel Sampson agreed wholeheartedly. ‘And we’ll call you Roger.’ He nodded at my pack. ‘I wish you luck with your selling.’

  I thanked him and asked directions to the Cheap. Moments later, I was once again walking up Crooked Lane in the direction of Thames Street. Outside the Crossed Hands inn I paused for the second time that day, staring thoughtfully up at the window which had been shut so roughly earlier in the morning. I had seen a figure hovering behind it, I was sure. Someone must have been there to have provoked so angry a reaction from the second person, the one who had closed the casement. I tried to recall the voice I had heard shouting ‘Get back!’ and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced it was a man’s.

  I suppose I stood there longer than I realized, because all at once someone said angrily in my ear: ‘Get a move on, chapman! I don’t want your sort loitering here.’

  I swung round to find myself confronting a man of very nearly my own height, and a great deal broader. In fact, he was of quite considerable girth. He had a thick, bushy beard which concealed most of his face and was of the same dark brown as his curly hair. His eyes, too, were brown, and also what could be seen of his skin, which was weatherbeaten to the colour of a walnut. Burly was the word which came to mind. If he had not been so well dressed, in a fine linen shirt beneath a soft woollen tunic, with boots of good quality leather on his feet, I should have taken him for a rough ex-soldier. There was something military in his stance and the way he barked out his orders. But his use of the first person and his tone of authority made me fairly certain that this was Martin Trollope.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, swallowing my anger and speaking as humbly as I could. ‘But this is my first visit to London and I find everything fascinating. I was admiring your windows.’

  ‘Why?’ was the brusque retort. ‘You’ve seen windows, haven’t you? Now, get away from here! I told you, I don’t want your sort hanging around.’

  The man was definitely on edge, and I felt that it was time to make him still edgier.

  ‘Are you the landlord, Martin Trollope?’ I asked.

  He glowered fiercely, but I noticed his right hand playing nervously with the buckle of his red leather belt. ‘And if I am, what’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing,’ I answered placatingly. ‘It’s only that I’ve heard of you. I was in Canterbury last month and was fortunate enough to have sold some of my wares to Lady Mallory of Tuffnel Manor.’ It was a lie, but only a white one. ‘Her maid told me afterwards about Sir Richard’s disappearance from this inn. And also that of his man, Jacob Pender.’

  Martin Trollope’s reaction was not quite what I had hoped for. ‘Oh, him!’ he grunted sourly. ‘Left still owing me money. Hadn’t paid for his own or his servant’s lodging.’ I forbore to say that this was not Lady Mallory’s story, and he continued: ‘And his father-in-law, Sir Gregory Bullivant, God rot him, refused to settle the account. Said I had no proof that Sir Richard had absconded without paying.’

  ‘But surely,’ I argued, ‘Sir Richard must have intended to return. He left the horses.’

  ‘Which Sir Gregory took away,’ was the vicious retort. ‘A pox on him!’

  ‘He’s dead,’ I answered shortly.

  Martin Trollope eyed me narrowly. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘Lady Mallory’s maid was very loquacious.’

  ‘“Loquacious”, is it?’ he sneered. ‘That’s a big word for a common chapman.’

  I thought it time to go. I had no wish to arouse his suspicions until I had gathered a good deal more information than I had at present. And I couldn’t conceal from myself that I found his attitude somewhat disappointing. He had not started guiltily on hearing me pronounce Sir Richard Mallory’s name; on the other hand, he did strike me as a man who was hiding something. I couldn’t say exactly what it was that made me feel this way, except for his general air of uneasiness and his dislike of strangers hanging around the inn. A chapman could not be an unusual sight, and it was not what I was that had attracted his attention. No; I was convinced it was the fact that I had been staring up at that particular window, and with such concentrated attention, which had brought Martin Trollope hotfoot outside to move me on.

  ‘I’ll be going, then,’ I said, and took a few steps towards the corner of the street before turning to glance once again at the casement just above our heads.

  This time his reaction was far more rewarding. ‘Get away!’ he commanded furiously; and I knew then that Martin Trollope’s had been the voice which had shouted ‘Get back!’ that morning.

  ‘God be with you,’ I answered magnanimously and turned, well satisfied, into Thames Street.

  As I pushed my way along that crowded thoroughfare, however, I was conscious that something was nagging at the corners of my mind; some little fact which was troubling me and making me uneasy. But the more I tried to pin it down, the more elusive it became, dodging in and out of other thoughts which obscured it. By the time I had been sworn at by three passers-by for not looking where I was going, I knew I should have to let it go, at least for now, and trust that the puzzle would resolve itself presently.

  And I had work to do. I set out resolutely for the Cheap.

  * * *

  West Cheap, or Cheapside, is also known simply as The Street, because it’s so famous. I don’t suppose there’s a soul in the whole of England, then as now, who hasn’t heard of it. It’s not what it was when I was young, but as I’ve remarked before, that goes without saying. My children and grandchildren will feel the same when they’re my age. But when I first saw it, in that October of 1471, I thought it must be the most magical place in the whole wide world.

  Cheap, of course, comes from the old Saxon word ‘chipping’, meaning a market: there was nothing cheap, in its current usage, about The Street. There were shops stuffed with silks and carpets, tapestries brought from Arras, gold and silver cups and plates, the most magnificent jewellery. My eyes were dazzled and I felt like a child in
fairyland, in spite of the fact that it is heresy to believe in the little people. (But then, for someone who still half acknowledges the existence of Robin Goodfellow and Hodekin and the terrible Green Man, how can I not believe in the world of fairies?) A conduit – the Great Conduit, I heard it called – brought fresh spring water all the way from Paddington, still smelling of herbs from the village meadows. There were grocers’ and apothecaries’ shops; and I saw grey Bristol soap being sold at a penny the pound, less than half the price of the hard white Castilian. The ordinary black liquid soap was only a halfpenny.

  There was the Standard, originally made of wood, now being rebuilt in stone, where Lord Say had been murdered by the followers of Jack Cade twenty-one years previously; the church of St Mary-le-Bow with its famous bell, so called because it was raised on arches; the great cross erected by King Edward the first, presently being rebuilt at a cost of well over a thousand pounds through the generosity of the capital’s citizens. There was the Mercers’ Hall situated along the north side, and the beautifully painted and decorated houses of the merchants. There was… But I could go on boring you forever with the wonders of that part of London. All I can say is that since that day, I have met many people, including foreigners, who speak with awe of Cheapside, its wares and its treasures.

  I thought I should be unable to sell much there, and was thinking of moving on, when I had my first customer. After that, it was easy. I had never before sold as much in a couple of hours as I did that afternoon. I realized after a while that people came to the Cheap to buy and were therefore in a spending mood. They didn’t much care who they bought from, provided they could afford what was on offer. And my wares were undoubtedly cheaper than those on display in the shops. I attracted the poorer citizens by the dozens.

  Mind you, I don’t say that my appearance didn’t have something to do with it. A lot of my customers were women; and if that sounds boastful, I’m sorry, but it happens to be the truth. I’ve always believed in using the gifts God gave you, and trading on my good looks to gain an advantage over my competitors never worried me or made me feel ashamed. I flirted with the younger women and flattered the older ones – another proof, if you need any more, that I was unsuited for a life of self-abnegation.

  When the church bells began tolling for Vespers, I packed my remaining wares into my pack and prepared to walk back to Crooked Lane, thinking hungrily of my supper. The fragrance of Thomas Prynne’s delicious stew lingered in my nostrils, making my mouth water in anticipation, and I set off for the Baptist’s Head with a swinging stride and a light heart, remembering the good business I had done that afternoon. It was still chilly, and remnants of the morning’s frost hung about the streets like grimy cobwebs. But storm clouds were gathering. It would not be so cold that night and might even rain.

  London continued to bewilder me, and although I knew I must be moving in the right direction, I nevertheless managed to lose my way. I suddenly found myself facing a huge and forbidding stone building, which seemed to my inexperienced eyes to be a fortress of some description. There were three massive arched gates fronting on to the street, and two of them were locked. At the third, carts were drawn up, loading or unloading goods, and I realized suddenly that this must be the Steelyard, home of those Hanseatic merchants who were the descendants of German traders established by the Saxon kings in Dowgate. I knew of their reputation from Marjorie Dyer, who had told me all about them that evening in Bristol; how the Easterlings lived a celibate life, with no women allowed inside the Steelyard walls; how they had their own two aldermen to represent them in the city government; how they stayed aloof from other Londoners; how they held a monopoly of the Baltic trade. In the event of an attack upon the capital, they were responsible for the defence of Bishopsgate, and consequently kept, or so the story went, a suit of armour in every room.

  It was while I was staring – gawking, my mother would have called it – at this imposing edifice, like a true rustic unused to such sights, that I found my eyes focused on one of the carters, who, with an assistant, was unloading great bales of cloth. There was something familiar about the man’s face, but I could not immediately recall where I had seen him before. Then, as though becoming aware of my scrutiny, he turned his head in my direction, and I recognized him as the carter employed by Alderman Weaver for the transport of his cloth to London. I went over, waiting patiently by the horse’s head until he should be free to speak.

  This took some while as there were at least half a dozen bales of the unbleached cloth to be unloaded; and when that task was finally accomplished, the man followed the Germans into the Steelyard and was gone for some time. When he emerged at last, he was ripe for someone to complain to.

  ‘Every single bloody bale weighed and examined,’ he grumbled. ‘The Easterlings, they don’t trust no one.’

  ‘They pay well, though,’ I said, remembering my conversation with Marjorie Dyer on Marsh Street quay.

  The carter sniffed. ‘Don’t make no difference to me, son. I don’t see none of it. They pay my employer, or his bailiff, when ’e comes up to London. And I get paid last of all.’

  ‘I’m sure Alderman Weaver doesn’t keep you waiting any longer than he has to.’

  The man looked at me sharply. ‘What do you know of the Alderman?’ he asked. He cocked his head on one side, his eyes bright with curiosity. ‘I’ve seen you some place before. Are you from Bristol?’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ I admitted. ‘I was born in Wells.’ He nodded, as much as to say that my accent gave me away. ‘And you’re right, we have met before, if only briefly. I was with Marjorie Dyer one morning last spring when she spoke to you. The wharf at the end of Marsh Street.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, but it was obvious that although he remembered my face, he had no recollection of the occasion.

  ‘She gave you a letter to deliver to her cousin,’ I reminded him, but the carter merely shrugged.

  ‘She often does that. So do a lot of other people. You’d be surprised what I get entrusted with. Good job I’m honest.’

  I agreed. ‘There’s been no news, I suppose, since then, of Clement Weaver?’

  He stared at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses and quietened his restless horse.

  ‘No! And never will be!’ he answered scornfully. ‘He’s dead and gone, and it’s only the Alderman, poor sod, who won’t accept it.’ He eyed me shrewdly. ‘Told you all about it, did she? Marjorie Dyer.’ When I made no reply, he went on: ‘She’d like the matter cleared up, I dare say, just to get back the Alderman’s attention. Oh yes!’ He winked broadly. ‘She has hopes in that direction, does Marjorie. The second Mistress Weaver, that’s what she wants to be. She always was ambitious. Never took kindly to being the poor relation, waitin’ on the rest of ’em. And now the daughter’s married and gone to live in Burnett, it’s possible Marjorie might have brought the Alderman up to scratch by this time, if he’d been able to think about anyone else except his precious Clement.’

  I wasn’t altogether surprised by this revelation, confirming as it did what I already knew about the relationship between the Alderman and his housekeeper. So Alison had married the foppish William Burnett and gone to live with him in his home village, had she? That, too, was unsurprising, even if it were to be regretted. A high-spirited girl like that deserved someone better.

  The carter mounted the box and took the reins between his hands. He still had deliveries to make and plainly wanted to be finished by nightfall. I stood away from the horse’s head to let him go, but he hesitated a moment longer.

  ‘Whereabouts in the city are you lodging?’ he asked me.

  ‘The Baptist’s Head in Crooked Lane.’ I interpreted his look as one of astonishment. He had not expected me to be staying at an inn, but rather at a religious hostelry, where accommodation was free and the diet of black bread, salt bacon or fish, and water. He also looked resentful, and I hastened to reassure him that I was not that much richer than he. ‘I traded on my brief acqu
aintance with Marjorie Dyer and the Alderman, I’m afraid. Master Prynne has most kindly agreed that I can sleep in the kitchen.’ I thought it prudent to make no mention of the bed I had been offered.

  The carter nodded, accepting my explanation. Indeed, he even seemed pleased by it. He dropped the reins and fumbled in the leather pouch fastened to his belt.

  ‘I remember Thomas Prynne,’ he said. ‘Landlord of the Running Man in Bristol before he came to London to make his fortune. Wanted to do as well as his old friend, Alderman Weaver, if you ask me. A bit of envy, I should guess, although that’s not a bad thing if you want to get on in this world. Myself, I’m content to be what I am and follow the calling God gave me. My wife, she says that’s just an excuse for laziness, but I’ve learned to ignore her nagging. In my experience, it’s the only way to get the better of women. You’ve just got to pretend they’re not there.’

  I laughed, remembering my mother. ‘They won’t stay ignored, that’s the trouble.’

  He seemed, at last, to have found what he was looking for and triumphantly produced a folded paper from his pouch. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to me. ‘What a piece of luck you’re going to Crooked Lane. It’ll save me an extra journey. This letter’s from Marjorie Dyer to her cousin, Matilda Ford, who’s cook at the Crossed Hands inn. P’raps you’d be kind enough to deliver it for me.’ As I took it from him, he gathered up the reins again and thanked me. ‘God be with you,’ he said, giving his horse the office to start.

  I stared stupidly after him as he vanished up the street, the slow clop of the animal’s hooves dwindling into the distance.

  Chapter Twelve

  My mind was reeling. Marjorie Dyer had a cousin who was cook at the Crossed Hands inn! I just stood there blindly in the middle of the street, trying to make sense of this information.