Death and the Chapman Page 12

  Marjorie was also distantly related to Alderman Weaver, but whether through her mother or her father I had no idea. Whichever it was, this Matilda Ford was a cousin on the other side of her family; an obvious enough deduction, as the Alderman had plainly known of no connection with the Crossed Hands inn which he might have exploited at the time of his son’s disappearance. And Marjorie had not enlightened him. Why not? There was only one conclusion to draw, however reluctant I might be to do so. Marjorie Dyer was in league with the robbers.

  No, no! The idea was preposterous! But why was it? What, after all, did I know about her, except what she herself had told me? And I had been a witness to the way Alison treated her, half-friend, half-servant; the very attitude to stoke the fires of Marjorie’s resentment. Furthermore, if she really had plans to become the second Mistress Weaver, Clement’s removal would be to her advantage. With him gone and Alison provided for by marriage to a wealthy husband, why should the Alderman not make a will leaving everything to Marjorie? Things began to make sense.

  Another thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. I had seen for myself that Marjorie slept in the Alderman’s bed, so what more likely than that he confided in her from time to time? He had probably told her that Clement would be carrying a large sum of money on that particular visit to London, so all she had to do was notify her cousin in advance, sending a letter by the carter, and afterwards claim to be ignorant of the fact…

  And yet… And yet… There were still pieces of the puzzle which did not fit. Marjorie could not possibly have foreseen the circumstances which would have deposited Clement outside the Crossed Hands inn, alone, on a dark and stormy evening. By rights, he should have parted from his sister at Paddington village and ridden on to the Baptist’s Head with Ned Stoner. My brain felt addled, but one fact stood out clearly, and I glanced down at the letter I was holding. At least, I now had a reason for entering the Crossed Hands inn, which not even Martin Trollope himself could quarrel with.

  A hand descended heavily on my shoulder and a guttural voice spoke angrily in my ear.

  ‘Vy don’t you move? You are obstructing the vaggons.’

  I turned to find one of the Easterlings glaring at me, and I also became aware that several of the carters were shouting abuse. I was blocking the traffic. I mumbled hasty apologies and made my way back to Thames Street, resolving on no more short cuts. I was not yet familiar enough with the London streets to attempt them, so I kept straight on until I came to the corner of Crooked Lane and the Crossed Hands inn. My eyes raised themselves instinctively to that window to the right of the courtyard, but it was firmly closed and there was no sign of life behind it. No shadow, however faint, was silhouetted against the oiled parchment. Silence reigned.

  Stifling a feeling of disappointment, I hitched up my pack and turned under the archway, clutching Marjorie Dyer’s letter like a talisman.

  * * *

  It wasn’t difficult to locate the kitchen on the north side of the courtyard; all the shutters stood wide open and there was a great clatter of pots and pans, as well as a strong smell of cooking; not the single, delicious aroma that emanated from the kitchen of the Baptist’s Head, but a mixture of scents; roasting meat, rising bread, simmering broth, together with stale fish and a whiff of garlic. It failed to whet my appetite, and I thought with contentment of the fragrant meal awaiting me a few yards further down the street.

  There were plenty of people in the courtyard, stabling horses for the night, drawing water from the well, carrying food up the outside stairs to one of the bedchambers, but, by great good fortune, no sign of Martin Trollope. I walked over to the kitchen door and stepped inside.

  For a while no one took any notice of me; indeed, I doubt if they were even aware of my presence, until the scullion, a pale-faced boy with a constant sniff, looked up from pounding some pine cones in a mortar and asked in a nasal whine: ‘Wotch you doin’ ’ere? Wotch you want? The landlord don’t allow no pedlars.’

  His words attracted the attention of others, and a fat woman with flour up to her elbows shouted: ‘Get off with you! Go on! Get out! Lad’s right. Master Trollope don’t allow no peddlin’. This is a respectable inn, this is.’

  ‘I’m not selling,’ I answered with a virtuous air of innocence. I waved the letter. ‘This is for the cook, Matilda Ford, from her cousin in Bristol.’

  There was a moment’s silence while all heads turned in the direction of a table at the far end of the room, where a woman and two girls were preparing vegetables and skinning rabbits. The woman stared suspiciously at me for a second, then, wiping her hands on her apron, came slowly towards me.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘And why have you brought my letter? Marjorie usually sends it by the carter.’ She was tall for a woman, but small-boned, with wisps of foxy-coloured hair escaping from beneath her cap; not at all how I would have expected a kinswoman of Marjorie’s to look. And yet she reminded me of someone. Was it Alison Weaver, now Lady Burnett? Perhaps I was wrong in my assumption that Matilda Ford was not related to the Weavers, but belonged to the other side of Marjorie’s family.

  I explained my involvement as briefly as I could, but was met with nothing except a scowl as one thin hand shot out and grabbed the paper.

  ‘That fool of a carter had no business entrusting my letter to a stranger,’ she snapped. ‘All right! You’ve given it to me. Now get on about your business.’ Before I had time to protest at such uncivil treatment, her head jerked round to address the girls behind her. ‘And what are you great gormless lumps sniggering at? Get on with your work this instant! You know we’re short-handed since Nell was dismissed. Do you hear me?’

  The girls looked sulky. One, who plainly had more courage than the other, demanded truculently: ‘Well then, if we’re short ’anded, why don’t that new girl come down and pull ’er weight. Pretendin’ she’s ill all the time an’ stayin’ upstairs! She ain’t no more ill than I am. An’ the master lettin’ ’er get away wiv it! It ain’t fair!’

  ‘You mind your own business, my girl,’ Matilda Ford retorted sourly, ‘or you’ll find yourself turned off. If Master Trollope says she’s to be left alone until she’s better, that’s nothing to do with you.’ She added, muttering under her breath: ‘Though why he lets himself be taken in by such a baggage—’ She broke off abruptly, recollecting my presence. ‘Are you still here? What are you waiting for? You’ve given me the letter, so get on about your own affairs.’ She went back to the table, picked up a wicked-looking knife and started on another rabbit. The girls, more sullen than ever, continued chopping vegetables.

  Everyone else ignored me, so I had no excuse to prolong my stay. But I was intrigued by this kitchen-maid who was exempt from duty, even though they were short-handed in the kitchens. Such concern for the health of his cook-maids somehow did not fit the Martin Trollope I had met that morning. Something smelled, and it was not just the fish which was being gutted by the scullion. I walked thoughtfully out into the cooler air of the courtyard, glancing about me. A big pile of logs was stacked against a wall outside the kitchen door and, loosening the straps of my pack, I slipped it from my shoulders. The shadow cast by the logs hid it from all but the most inquisitive eyes. Then I strolled across the yard, unnoticed in all the bustle of a new arrival, and mounted the outside stair to the balcony. Three doors opened off this into what I presumed were the main guest-bedchambers, but facing me at the far end was a fourth door, leading, I hoped, to the inn’s private quarters. I sent a quick, furtive glance down into the courtyard, found I was still unobserved, and with a few swift steps and a lift of the latch was in a narrow corridor, a continuation of the balcony, but now walled in, with a door to my left and a window to my right, the latter covered in thick oiled parchment. Furtively, I opened the casement and peered outside. I was looking down into Crooked Lane where it joined Thames Street, and, glancing to my right, I could see the entrance to the courtyard. This, undoubtedly, was the window which had attracted my attention early
that morning, and I speculated who the person was who had been standing here. My guess – and I felt almost certain that it was correct – was that it was the missing cook-maid.

  Kitchen servants were never allowed above stairs, their place of work also being their sleeping quarters. It was as strange, therefore, as it was intriguing that one of their number should not only be permitted to plead illness, but, even allowing that her sickness might be genuine, be cossetted in seclusion until she was better. And particularly by Martin Trollope. And if the girl were his mistress, which was highly unlikely, why would he wish to conceal her? It was as though her presence at the inn was a secret. Yet not completely: Matilda Ford and her two assistants, at least, were aware of the young woman’s existence. They regarded her as having come to the Crossed Hands inn to work and were angry at what they saw as her shirking. But where did the girl fit in with Clement Weaver’s and Sir Richard Mallory’s disappearance? That was something which I had yet to fathom.

  I opened the door on the left-hand side of the corridor and peeped inside, but to my bitter disappointment there was no one in the room. The room itself was small and scantily furnished; a truckle bed, neatly made up with clean, lavender-scented linen, a joint stool beside the fireless hearth, and a chest, probably containing clothes, were the only items in there. The thing which immediately drew my eyes, however, was a piece of embroidery flung down on the bed, as though it had only recently been abandoned. I picked it up carefully and examined it, wondering, as I did so, at the delicacy of the design; at the fragile, muted tones shading from gold to palest green, from egg-shell blue to white. This was an example of the famous Opus Anglicanum, learned by every woman of birth and standing, and eagerly sought after by the rest of Europe. These lovely patterns and exquisite colours were prized even among the treasures of the Papal Court. And here again, of course, I write from knowledge acquired much later in my life: at the time, I only knew that this had to be the handiwork of a gentlewoman. The rough, chapped hands of a peasant woman, like my mother, could never have made such tiny, fragile stitches.

  As I stood staring at my find, I was aware of a sudden flurry of movement on the periphery of my vision. The next instant, a hand grabbed my shoulder.

  ‘You again!’ It was Martin Trollope, his face livid with anger. ‘What in the name of Satan are you doing sneaking about my inn, prying into things which don’t concern you?’ He dealt me a swinging blow, and, big though I am, he almost knocked me off my feet. ‘I’ve a good mind to call the Watch!’

  I don’t know what made me take a chance. My brain felt addled by the buffet to my head, and my ears were singing as though a whole aviary of birds was inside them. But I managed to retain my balance and said, with as much dignity as I could muster: ‘Go on, then! Call them.’

  Trollope’s eyes narrowed and he looked as if he might hit me a second time. But all he said, through lips stiff with rage, was: ‘Get out! Now, before I change my mind. And consider yourself bloody lucky!’

  ‘You’re not going to call the Watch, then?’ I asked, as insolently as I dared.

  ‘I’ve told you! Get out!’ He spoke through clenched teeth and his right hand was bunched into an enormous fist.

  I’m not a coward; being the size I am, I’ve never had need to be. But he was a very big man, and there seemed little to be gained by picking a quarrel with him on his own territory. He had only to shout to bring half a dozen of the inn’s servants running to his aid, and I should be thrown ignominiously into the street, probably acquiring a black eye or a cut lip in the process. It was far better that I went quietly while I could. Nevertheless, it was interesting how reluctant he was to call the Watch.

  I replaced the embroidery on the bed and Martin Trollope became aware of it for the first time. His eyes bulged and his face, or what was visible of it above his beard, turned a dull, bloated red, giving the game away completely. This was not the work of some woman guest who was staying at the inn, or he would have been indifferent to its discovery. This had been done by the mysterious kitchen-maid, who so obviously was not one.

  I raised my eyes and smiled into his, letting him know that I was conscious of this fact and had realized its implications. He gave a snort of stifled rage and thrust his face forward on its short bull-neck, pushing it so close to mine, that our noses were almost touching.

  ‘You breathe a single word of my affairs outside this inn and you’ll be sorry your mother ever bore you! That’s a promise, and don’t think for one moment that I can’t keep it.’

  I was not so foolish. I had no doubt that a character like Martin Trollope had sufficiently powerful connections both among the nobility and the criminal fraternity of the city to make it good. It was something I might have to risk in future, but not just at present. With a sense of relief at being able to postpone the evil day, I edged past him towards the door. Two minutes later I was again standing in the courtyard, humping my pack on to my back, Martin Trollope glaring balefully at me from the balcony. There was no chance for me to return to the kitchen for another word, however brief, with Matilda Ford, and I had to content myself with a defiant wave at the landlord as I passed under the archway and emerged once more into Crooked Lane, turning my feet in the direction of the Baptist’s Head.

  * * *

  It was now well past the hour of Vespers. The brilliance of the morning with its sparkle of frost had faded to a uniform greyness as daylight waned. A thin layer of cloud, stretched like muslin, obscured the sun; the houses appeared flat and two-dimensional as though cut from paper against the darkening sky; the bustle of Thames Street was no more than the roaring of some distant ocean on a remote and foreign shore, the sound muted by the overhanging houses.

  As I covered the yards between the Crossed Hands and the Baptist’s Head, I wondered whether to reveal what I now knew about Marjorie Dyer to Thomas Prynne, or to keep my own counsel. What, after all, did I know for certain? Not enough to make accusations. And yet, I felt that I would be glad of his opinion on what appeared to me to be her very suspicious conduct. But then again, he might be incapable, or at least reluctant, to pass judgement on a friend. It was a dilemma I had still not resolved by the time I reached the inn. I decided to wait and see what happened; to see how he responded to a hint on my part that Marjorie might not be as innocent as she seemed.

  The smell of the stew was even more delicious, as though some delicate herb or spice had been added since my departure. I sniffed appreciatively as Thomas met me just inside the doorway.

  ‘Sorrel,’ he said, laughing. ‘I always add a little to my soups and stews. How did your day go? Did you make any money?’

  I grinned and jangled the coins in my pouch. ‘Enough to buy me the best supper you have, breakfast in the morning and pay for my night’s lodging, as well. Tomorrow, I hope to do even better.’

  He threw up a hand in protest. ‘I’ve told you, any friend of Marjorie Dyer’s sleeps here free.’ He jerked his head towards the door at the far end of the passage. ‘The well’s in the yard, near the stable.’

  I thanked him, left my pack and stick inside the ale-room and made my way outside. I drew up a bucket of ice-cold water, bathed my face and hands, shook off the surplus drops and let my skin dry in the chill evening air. The red roan shifted restlessly in its stall, kicking with its back hooves against the flimsy door. I guessed that it belonged to Gilbert Parsons, the hapless litigant mentioned by Thomas and Abel.

  By the time I returned indoors, Gilbert had put in an appearance; a painfully thin man with the melancholy expression of a bloodhound. He was seated in the ale-room, eating his supper, which, as well as the stew, consisted of bread and cheese, a dish of rampion – the root boiled and served in a thick white sauce – a dish of orache, also boiled, and to follow, a sillabub decorated with sugared almonds. Just the sight and smell of it all made my mouth water, and I hoped fervently that we would be eating as well in the kitchen.

  We did, washing everything down with a fine Bordeaux wine, the li
ke of which I had never tasted before and rarely have since. Thomas Prynne had not exaggerated when he said that he and his partner bought only the best to put in their cellar. Even my untutored palate could appreciate its velvety texture and contrast it with the rough red wine we novices had occasionally been given to drink at the abbey. I’m afraid I made a pig of myself that mealtime, gorging until I could eat and drink no more.

  ‘I’m glad he’s able to pay for his food,’ Abel remarked to Thomas, ‘or we might have found ourselves sadly out of pocket.’

  Thomas nodded in agreement. ‘You’re a good trencherman,’ he said, addressing me. ‘Mind you, you’ve a big frame to keep going. It’s natural you should be a hearty eater.’

  I smiled at him. Or at least I tried to smile, but my lips refused to obey me. The heat of the kitchen, the enormous meal, but above all, the wine to which I was unaccustomed, had all combined to make me stupid and sleepy. I gave a prodigious yawn and stretched my arms until the bones cracked. I should have liked to go to bed, but it was not yet dark and curfew had still not sounded.

  ‘Come and sit by the fire,’ Thomas Prynne suggested, indicating what I presumed to be his own chair, as it had arms. ‘You can sleep off the effects of your supper while we prepare for Master Farmer from Northampton. He must be here soon if he wants to avoid putting up for the night outside the city. The gates will shut within the hour. Abel, be a good fellow and look outside to see if he’s coming.’

  I watched Abel leave the kitchen through a sleep-drugged haze, sinking into the chair and stretching my legs out before me. My eyelids were already closing. In half an hour or so, I promised myself, I would go into the yard to get some air. But for the present, replete, I was content to let food and wine and the heat of the fire do their work. I drifted over the borderline of sleep.