Death and the Chapman Page 13

  Chapter Thirteen

  Suddenly I was wide awake, jerked into awareness by the sound of my own snoring. For a moment or two I was completely lost, unable to make out where I was or remember the earlier events of the evening. Then memory came crowding back, and I realized that I was no longer seated in the chair before the kitchen fire, but stretched full length on a bed, where, presumably, Thomas and Abel had carried me. I must have slept deeply and dreamlessly for several hours, the landlord and his partner finding it impossible to rouse me when it was finally time to retire for the night, so they had been forced to hump me upstairs between them. I sat up cautiously and peered around, my eyes slowly growing accustomed to the dark.

  I felt dreadful. My head thumped and pounded as though my brain were trying to burst through my skull. The inside of my mouth was dry as tinder and tasted appalling. My limbs were as limp and as useless as those of a sawdust-stuffed doll, while my head swam every time I tried to focus my eyes. Hurriedly I closed them again and slumped back on the bed.

  I swallowed the bile which rose in my throat and waited patiently for the nausea to subside. I had at least learned a valuable lesson: I had no head for wine. After what seemed like an hour but was probably no more than a quarter, I began to feel a little better; enough, at any rate, to sit up again and ease my feet to the floor. Moonlight rimmed the shutters, inlaying them with a faint mother-of-pearl radiance, and I made myself stand up, tottering slightly, then go across and set them wide. The storm clouds of early evening had vanished, torn to rags by a rising wind. They slid by, unveiling the stars, and somewhere close at hand the breeze took hold of a loose shutter, rattling it on its hinges. I peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing. I was staring down at the yard at the back of the inn, and all was still and silent. Even Gilbert Parson’s horse was sleeping.

  I closed the shutters and turned back once more into the room, my eyes now able to see quite plainly. Apart from the narrow bed on which I had been lying, there was nothing except an oak chest supporting a tallow candle in its holder and a tinder-box. This, obviously, was the chamber kept for passing strangers when the other two rooms were full, or for people without much money, who, like me, were simply glad of a bed for the night and not too fussy. The rashes on the floor smelled musty, as though they had not been changed for a couple of days.

  I was suddenly conscious that my bladder was overfull, a result of all the wine I had drunk at supper. Many people, then as now, would not have hesitated to urinate in a corner, but I have always had a fastidious streak, inherited from my mother, which others are inclined to jeer at. I know my fellow novices at Glastonbury thought it hilarious when I insisted on going outside to piss, even in the depths of winter. They used to pass all sorts of obscene remarks, but I never minded, because I was big enough to accept that kind of teasing with good humour. I suppose physical height and strength do tend to make one placid.

  I struck the steel against the flint and lit the candle from the burning tinder. Then, shutting the box and replacing it on the chest, I quietly opened the door of my room and stepped into the darkened corridor. As silently as I could, so as not to disturb the other inmates, I crept down the stairs and made my way along the passage to the door at the back of the inn. I reached up to the great iron bolt at the top, only to discover that it was already withdrawn from its socket. Glancing down, I saw that the one at the bottom had not been shot home either. And when I tried the key, I found that that, too, was unturned. Surely Thomas Prynne and Abel Sampson were not the kind of men to be so careless. I felt a sudden frisson of fear, as though something evil was lurking on the other side of the door, waiting to grab me.

  I noticed my hand was shaking, the wavering candle flame sending shadows flickering drunkenly over the walls, and I pulled myself together. Everyone was careless now and again, I told myself severely; even the best of us had moments of forgetfulness and did stupid things. Resolutely I lifted the latch and stepped outside, into the moon-washed courtyard. In the distance I could hear the tolling of a bell and realized what had really roused me from my drunken stupor. Not my snoring, but the old habit of waking at two hours past midnight for the office of Matins and Lauds. It was too strong even for the potency of Thomas Prynne’s good wine.

  The wind immediately snuffed out my candle, so I put the holder down on the floor inside the door, and tiptoed across the courtyard to the privy, which cast a thick black wedge of shadow in the moonlight. As I relieved myself, I heard the gentle snicker of a horse as it blew softly down its nostrils. Then there came an answering whinny from the stall at the end of the stable. Two horses? Of course! While I had been dead to the world, Master Farmer, the other guest, had arrived. I smiled ruefully to myself. What must my hosts think of me, so green and so unable to hold my liquor?

  The chill night air had cleared my head wonderfully, and my limbs had ceased their palsied trembling. My stomach, too, had decided to behave, after one or two squeamish moments. I returned to the inn, carefully locking and bolting the back door after me. As I passed the ale-room, I could see where the last embers of the fire winked and glowed on the now almost empty hearth. I mounted the stairs to the landing, and my ears were at once assailed by the stertorous snoring of another guest, who had also drunk too deeply. I felt a little cheered to know that I was not the only drunkard. But there was no sound from behind the third guest-chamber door, the one furthest from mine. There all was silent as the grave.

  An unexpected wave of nausea made my stomach heave, and left me once again urgently in need of fresh air. There was a window at the end of the landing and I hurriedly pushed it open, inhaling the smells of the nearby Thames. This window was at the front of the inn, and by turning my head to the left I could see the river as it flowed past the wharf at the end of the street, its surface washed first silver and then gold by the moonlight. Slowly the sickness receded and I began to feel better. I looked to my right, in the direction of the Crossed Hands inn, expecting Crooked Lane to be empty at this hour of the morning. And at first glance it appeared to be so. Then, suddenly, I was aware of a figure enveloped in a thick hooded cloak moving swiftly and silently up the street, hugging the shadows cast by the houses opposite. Whether it was a man or a woman was hard to tell at that distance because the cloak reached to the ankles and the hood was up, drawn tightly about the head. As I watched, my whole body rigid with anticipation, my fingers stiffly clutching the sill, the figure drew level with the Crossed Hands inn and vanished through the archway. At almost the same moment Thomas Prynne’s voice said behind me: ‘By Christ, Roger Chapman, you gave me a fright! What are you doing up and about at this time of night?’

  * * *

  He was wearing a voluminous white night-shift, which made him look like a friendly ghost, and a nightcap pulled well down over his ears. In one hand he held a lighted candle.

  ‘I’m s-sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  He looked me up and down, smiling quizzically.

  ‘It’s something, I suppose, that you can stand on your feet. The state you were in, I didn’t expect you to come round until morning. You must have extraordinary powers of recovery.’

  ‘I’m not used to wine,’ I apologized. ‘I had no idea it would affect me so badly.’ I remembered something. ‘And we didn’t have our talk about Clement Weaver.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ He shrugged and shivered a little as the wind blew in through the open casement. ‘A waste of time, if you want my opinion. Shut that window, there’s a good lad.’ He frowned. ‘What’s it doing open?’

  ‘I needed some air,’ I explained. ‘I wasn’t feeling so well.’

  Comprehension dawned in his eyes and he chuckled quietly. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Better get back to your bed now.’

  As he turned away, I said: ‘I had to go downstairs, to the yard. You’d left the back door unlocked and unbolted.’

  He shook his head. ‘Nonsense! You must be mistaken. I locked and bolted it myself. I
always see to it personally before I come upstairs at night. With so many thieves about, I won’t risk leaving it to Abel. Young men are inclined to be careless.’

  ‘The door was open,’ I insisted. ‘I went into the yard to relieve myself, and it was unbolted.’

  Thomas frowned again. ‘You’re absolutely certain? You didn’t imagine it? Wine fumes can be extremely potent and sometimes confuse the brain.’

  ‘No, I’m sure,’ I answered. ‘I’d been awake some while and was perfectly sober. But just now, through that window, I saw someone walking up the street to the Crossed Hands inn.’

  ‘At this hour?’ He sounded incredulous and, pushing past me, threw wide the casement again.

  ‘Whoever it was has gone now,’ I told him. ‘He – or she – went into the inn.’

  Thomas withdrew his head, once more closing and fastening the window. ‘Why do you say “she”? Did you think that it might have been a woman?’

  ‘It was impossible to tell. The person was wearing a long cloak with a hood.’

  He gestured dismissively. ‘A late reveller, perhaps. A lot of respectable citizens break curfew and manage to avoid the Watch. It’s not difficult. I’ve done it myself.’

  ‘I’m sure this wasn’t a reveller. There’s something suspicious about that place.’

  Thomas smiled indulgently. ‘So you said before, but you haven’t really convinced me yet.’ He shivered again. ‘We’ll talk about this in the morning, if you want to, but for now, let’s get back to bed. I have to be up before cockcrow. I need my sleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t have kept you.’

  ‘Do you feel all right now?’

  I nodded. ‘I gather Master Farmer arrived safely. I heard his horse in the stable, when I was outside in the yard.’

  Thomas took a deep breath, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on here tonight, or if it’s all in your head, but there’s no horse but Master Parson’s in the stable. Master Farmer failed to arrive before curfew. He must be putting up for the night outside the city walls. We shan’t be seeing him now until tomorrow.’

  * * *

  I went back to bed but could not sleep, lying wide awake in the darkness. The throbbing in my head was now a dull ache, but I was no longer feeling sick. My stomach at last seemed able to cope with its burden.

  Had I been wrong in thinking that I had heard a second horse? At the time I was sure that there were two in the stable, but I might have been mistaken. I had been shut inside the privy and had certainly not been at my brightest. Yet I could have sworn that one whinny had answered another. I got up and went over to the window, opening the shutters…

  ‘…horse. He says he heard it.’ It was Thomas Prynne’s voice, floating up to me from the yard below. I could just make out the faint glimmer of his candle.

  ‘I thought he was out cold until morning.’ It was Abel Sampson speaking this time. ‘Perhaps we’d better look round and make sure all’s well.’

  Obviously, Thomas had been more disturbed by what I had told him than he let on, and had roused his partner to accompany him on a search of the inn and its premises. I closed the shutters softly and lay down again, first divesting myself of my shoes and tunic. The back door had definitely been open: I had not dreamed it. So, if Thomas was right and he had locked it, who could have drawn back the bolts, and why? And who was the person I had seen from the landing window, hurrying so furtively up the street and entering the Crossed Hands inn? Martin Trollope? The mysterious cook-maid? Matilda Ford? And who had he, or she, come to see at the Baptist’s Head? What, after all, did I know of Gilbert Parsons…?

  My head was swimming, but pleasantly this time. I was by the Stour once more, making love to Bess. When I looked up, Alison Weaver and William Burnett were standing further along the bank, watching us. Alison said: ‘Leave Marjorie Dyer alone,’ and I saw that Bess had turned into the housekeeper. Alison smiled at the young man by her side, who was no longer her husband. She slid an arm about his neck. ‘This is my brother, Clement…’

  I woke to find the shutters of my room now rimmed with a faded, rain-washed light. When I opened them, a chill wind hit me as it raced across the sky, blowing the clouds into an ever-changing vista of shapes. A spatter of raindrops touched my face, and the daylight which filtered between the neighbouring rooftops was murky and unwholesome. The weather had worsened during the latter part of the night. I shook myself free of the rags of sleep and the last, lingering echoes of my dream, put on my shoes and tunic, and made my way downstairs. The smell of frying bacon greeted me from the kitchen, and the fact that it made my mouth water and set my stomach rumbling proved that I was completely cured. The indisposition of the night had left me.

  When I looked round the kitchen door I saw Thomas Prynne holding a skillet over the kitchen fire, in which he was cooking thick slabs of fat, salt bacon. On the table were a number of wooden bowls filled with oatmeal, liberally sprinkled with saffron, two big jugs of ale and a loaf of bread, half of it cut into slices. He turned his head at the sound of my footsteps and smiled.

  ‘Are you feeling better this morning?’

  ‘Well enough to do more than justice to your breakfast,’ I answered. ‘I’m just going to wash in the yard. By the way, did you and Abel discover anything after I’d gone back to bed?’ In reply to his questioning glance I went on: ‘I heard you talking under my window. I couldn’t really hear what you were saying, only a few words, but I gathered you were looking around.’

  Thomas speared a slice of bacon with his knife and deftly turned it over. The fat spluttered and sizzled in the pan. ‘No, nothing,’ he said, ‘but I can explain the unlocked door. Our other guest, Master Parsons, had earlier had the same call of nature as yourself, and had carelessly forgotten to bolt it after him. He confessed as much when I took him his mazer of ale at first light this morning.’

  ‘And the other horse?’ I queried, beginning to feel remarkably foolish.

  ‘A figment of your imagination, I’m afraid. There was only Master Parson’s Jessamy in the stable.’ Thomas’s smile deepened. ‘It’s as I said. Wine fumes can play strange tricks.’

  Abel Sampson came into the kitchen, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. ‘God’s Teeth, I’m tired. I always am when my rest’s disturbed.’

  I felt guilty and edged towards the door. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I said, ‘when I’ve washed.’

  It was quiet in the courtyard, except for an occasional flurry of wind and the steady patter of the rain on the cobbles. Since childhood, I have always loved the early morning, the sense of calm before the hurrying hours gather themselves together into the urgency of midday, slide towards the boredom of late afternoon, then surge, rejuvenated, into the bustle of evening. It’s a time for quiet and reflection, with a whole new day stretching ahead of me; an undiscovered territory; a promise as yet unfulfilled. I raised a bucket of ice-cold water from the well and bathed my face and hands. No doubt Master Parsons was wallowing in a hot tub in front of the fire in his bedchamber, but then, he was paying for his room. I returned to the kitchen and my breakfast.

  While I swallowed my oatmeal and bacon, I discussed the night’s events – or non-events, as they had turned out to be – with Thomas and Abel.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘to have disturbed you for no reason.’

  ‘No harm done,’ Thomas answered thickly, through a mouthful of bread and honey. ‘And if the yard door had been left open all night, we could have been robbed. It wouldn’t have taken a good thief long to discover the trapdoor and stairs to the cellar.’ He swallowed his food and asked: ‘What are your plans? Do you intend returning here again this evening?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m stopping in London for a while yet. I haven’t begun to get to the bottom of Clement Weaver’s disappearance.’

  I saw the two men exchange glances before Abel said: ‘There isn’t any mystery, you know, except for what’s in the Alderman�
��s imagination.’

  I accepted another slice of bacon and set about it heartily. ‘What about Sir Richard Mallory?’ I asked him.

  Abel shrugged. ‘This is an evil city. We hear of robberies and murders every day of our lives, don’t we, Thomas?’

  The landlord raised his eyebrows in agreement. ‘And in the late unsettled times, things have naturally been worse. To my way of thinking, both Clement and this Sir Richard were set upon and killed, and their bodies disposed of in the river. I’m sorry if I sound hard, because Alfred Weaver is a friend of mine and I’ve known both the children since they were little. I was as upset as anyone by Clement’s disappearance and the distress that it caused his family. But I don’t allow sentiment to cloud my common sense. I don’t believe, as his father does, that he might still be alive somewhere, or as you seem to do, that his death has something to do with Martin Trollope and the Crossed Hands inn. It was dark and stormy, black as the grave, the night he was due here and never arrived. The sort of night when every criminal in the city is up and about his evil business. I wasn’t worried when Clement didn’t show up. I thought he must have changed his mind and gone to his uncle’s instead, along with young Alison. It wasn’t until Ned Stoner rode in just after curfew that I realized that anything was wrong.’

  ‘What did you do?’ I asked him.

  Thomas shrugged and looked at Abel, who obligingly continued for him.

  ‘We – all three of us – set out to search for him, of course. But there was nothing much we could do that night. It was too dark and wet, as Tom’s already mentioned. As soon as it was daylight, we searched again and alerted the Watch. Ned Stoner rode out to Farringdon Ward to discover if by some chance Master Weaver was there, but none of us had much hope of the outcome. Neither Tom nor I had any doubts by that time that the boy was dead, when we learned what sum of money he had had about him.’

  ‘That was much later, of course,’ Thomas said, beginning to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘After the Alderman’s arrival. And now, we all have work to do, so let’s get on and do it.’ He paused beside my stool and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave it, lad, that’s my advice. Don’t waste your time hanging around in London. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for Roger Chapman’s wares. However hard it may sound, Clement Weaver and Richard Mallory are dead. Forget them.’