Death and the Chapman Read online

  Which, in a way, I suppose I had; the ghost of Clement Weaver.

  Some people might call it coincidence, others the working of Divine Providence, that of all the girls I could have met in Canterbury I had fallen in with Bess. The reminders I had already had throughout the previous day and this inclined me to the second point of view, however reluctant I might be to admit it, and however hard I fought against the notion. Bess had been sent to me for a purpose other than that of proving my manhood.

  If I had followed my own inclinations, I should have asked no more questions, made love to Bess again and gone on my way. But lying there among the sweet-smelling grasses, I felt that God was demanding something of me in return for His forgiveness for my having abandoned the religious life. I was to channel my natural curiosity into combating evil. There was no escape.

  ‘Why did Sir Richard go to London?’ I asked.

  Bess edged forward and once more paddled her bare feet in the river. The thick, springing curls tumbled down her back and across her shoulders. ‘To pay his respects to King Edward and congratulate him on the victory at Tewkesbury. He had been ill of a fever when the King and his brothers came here earlier in the summer.’

  ‘Your master was for York, then?’

  ‘Of course. I told you, my lady’s family is distantly related to Cardinal Bourchier. And as the Archbishop is himself a kinsman of King Edward’s mother, the Duchess of York, there has never been any conflict of loyalties in our house. My lady would never have married anyone who was for Lancaster.’

  ‘Who went with Sir Richard to London?’

  Bess turned her head to peer at me over her shoulder. ‘You’re very inquisitive.’

  ‘You’ve aroused my interest. A man who is happily married doesn’t suddenly leave his wife.’ I repeated: ‘Who went with him?’

  ‘Only his manservant, Jacob Pender. He vanished, along with my master.’

  I frowned. ‘Was this Jacob Pender married, too?’

  She gave a little crow of laughter. ‘No. And vowed he never would be.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘He was a good lover. More experienced than you.’

  I felt myself blush again. She really was incorrigible. She would find herself in trouble one of these days, if she wasn’t careful and be cast on to the street. But remonstrating with her would do no good. She wouldn’t listen to me. And indeed, why should she?

  ‘They stayed, you say, at the Crossed Hands inn?’

  ‘So my lady told me. The owner is a cousin of a dependant of the Duke of Clarence, and with the Bullivants’ royal connections…’ She broke off, her eyes encouraging me to laugh with her at the pretensions and conceits of our betters.

  But I was too preoccupied with my thoughts. ‘Would you know if this inn is situated in a place called Crooked Lane, off Thames Street?’

  Bess wriggled round to face me, tucking her wet feet beneath her skirt, regardless of the grass and mudstains they were making.

  ‘That’s right. I’ve heard my lady mention it often enough since her husband’s disappearance. Sir Gregory finally went himself in pursuit of his son-in-law – a fact which is generally held to have hastened his death – and they were discussing it the night before he left. I distantly recall my lady saying: “Crooked Lane off Thames Street.” Why, do you know it?’

  ‘I know of it,’ I answered slowly. ‘And of the Crossed Hands inn. So, Sir Gregory was unsuccessful.’ It was not a question as she had already told me the answer, and I went on: ‘Do you think you could persuade your lady to see me?’

  ‘Why? What has it to do with you?’

  ‘I might have some information in which she would be interested. Oh, I don’t know what’s become of Sir Richard any more than you do, but I’d like to hear the story from her own lips.’

  ‘You’d like to hear…’ Bess was beginning with an incredulous smile, but something in my face must have given her pause, because she stopped smiling and regarded me thoughtfully for several moments. ‘I might be able to persuade her,’ she agreed at last, ‘if, of course, I know the whole story and what it is you have to say.’

  I hesitated, but only for an instant. There was no reason why she should not know, and anyway, it was obvious that satisfied curiosity was the price of her cooperation. And I owed her something. I patted the grass beside me, where she had been sitting before edging nearer to the water. ‘Come here,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you.’

  * * *

  The manor house which had been the home of Sir Richard Mallory, and where his wife still lived, was a little way outside the city walls, south, on the Dover road. I approached it the following day, towards evening.

  A message had reached me at the Eastbridge Hospital early that morning, brought to me by one of Lady Mallory’s servants, a circumstance which had profoundly impressed my fellow borders.

  ‘My lady says you’re to come this evening, after supper.’ The man had then proceeded to give me directions, although, as he said, anyone could tell me how to get there. Tuffnel Manor was well known in the locality.

  It had been another glorious day, warm even for mid-September. Only the yellowing leaves and the sudden sharp bite in the air night and morning hinted that winter would soon be upon us. Overhead, the sun still rode high in the sky, with some way yet to go before reaching the horizon. I had again done well in the market-place, and would soon have to replenish my stock. I had money in my pocket, a full stomach and was feeling pleased with myself; so pleased and contented that I wondered, as I strode along, why I was allowing myself to be embroiled once more in this affair of the Crossed Hands inn. But I knew the answer to that. God had spoken.

  The knowledge didn’t, of course, prevent me querying God’s intentions, nor even His wisdom, from time to time; still another reason why I had felt it necessary to leave Glastonbury, and why Abbot Selwood had not tried to discourage me.

  ‘Faith,’ he had told me severely, ‘must be absolute.’

  But for me, it never has been. I’ve always found it necessary to argue with God on occasions – even if He always wins the argument in the end.

  Tuffnel Manor was surrounded by three great open fields, divided into strips by balks of sod and ploughed by the serfs and peasants who worked the holding. As I passed their huddle of cottages two men were returning home, leading a scrawny pig down from the woods where it had been turned out to forage for the day, rootling among the mast and fallen beech nuts. The manor itself was two storeys high and encircled by a moat, which I crossed by means of a drawbridge. The walls were not completely castellated, but presented narrow, shot-hole windows which overlooked the water. Inside, they enclosed a courtyard, where Bess was waiting impatiently to greet me.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you weren’t coming, and after the trouble I took persuading my lady to see you, I should have looked a fool if you hadn’t turned up.’ She switched her attention to the steward, who came fussing across the open space from a distant lighted doorway. ‘It’s all right, Robert. My lady’s expecting the chapman.’

  The man sniffed, looking down a long, aquiline nose and eyeing me with suspicion. ‘I wasn’t told,’ he protested.

  ‘My lady doesn’t tell you everything,’ Bess answered pertly. She flashed the steward a smile, but her wiles were plainly lost on such a man.

  ‘If you’re certain, you’d better follow me. My lady’s in her solar.’

  ‘I know. She has been since supper-time. And there’s no need for you to accompany us. I’ve instructions to take the chapman to her myself.’

  Robert looked affronted, but, to his credit, he did not argue, merely standing aside with a shrug of his shoulders and allowing us to pass.

  Bess giggled and took my hand. ‘He fancies himself, does that one. Fancies my lady, too; and his hopes have risen since Sir Richard’s disappearance.’

  She led me indoors, across the great hall and up a flight of narrow, twisting stairs to Lady Mallory’s solar in the upper storey. In spite of the evening sunlight and th
e continuing warmth of the day, there was a fire burning on the hearth, and the scent of the flowers strewn among the rushes was almost overpowering. An old wolfhound, lying near the window, raised his head at my entrance and sniffed hopefully; then, realizing that I was not, after all, his master, lowered it again with an air of sorrowful resignation.

  Lady Mallory also raised her head to look at me, but with a good deal more hostility than the hound. It was plain that although she had agreed to see me, she resented being indebted to anyone as lowly as a chapman.

  Her face, now that I could see it properly, without the veil of two days since, was thin and discontented. Its pallor above the black gown was startling; but I suspected that it was not merely grief for her father that made it so ashen. She was a naturally bloodless creature, and in addition whitened her skin with cosmetics. Her eyebrows were plucked to a thin, single line, and the hair was shaved well back from her forehead so that not a wisp escaped from inside its cage of stiffened gauze beneath the brocaded cap. The effect was curiously masklike, but then, that was the fashion among great ladies and distinguished them from their inferiors. It was the effect that Alison Weaver had not quite managed to achieve.

  I noted, too, during those long moments while I was kept shuffling my feet in the rushes, that Lady Mallory’s robe was of silk, and that the ends of her girdle were tipped with gold set with rubies and sapphires. The rest of her jewellery – brooch, rings, bracelet, rosary – were all of jet as became her state of mourning, but she had been unable to resist the lure of wearing some precious stones about her person. I judged her to be a high, proud, stiff-necked woman, who put great store – more than was warranted, probably – by her tenuous royal connections, and, as a corollary, by ostentatious display of wealth and position. And no doubt her husband had been of a similar nature, hurrying up to London to offer his congratulations to a king who was more than likely unaware of his existence. Sir Richard may only have travelled with one servant for speed and convenience, but he would have left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was a man of substance. And, in his own eyes at least, a man of some importance.

  I thought once again of Clement Weaver, lower in the social scale than Sir Richard Mallory, knight, but with a father just as wealthy, and carrying a large sum of money on his person. And both men had disappeared after having contact with the Crossed Hands inn. Sir Richard had stayed there, according to Bess, and Clement had alighted from his uncle’s waggon outside it. Surely it must be more than just coincidence.

  ‘Well—’ Lady Mallory’s voice cut sharply across my train of thought ‘—sit down, for goodness’ sake! You make me uneasy, standing over me like that. How tall are you?’ Without waiting for a reply, she went on: ‘Bess! Bring a stool for your friend.’ There was a kind of sneering quality in the way she uttered the last word which caused the blood to sting my cheeks, but I murmured a humble word of thanks as I folded myself on to the low, three-legged stool which Bess carried over.

  ‘It’s most gracious of your ladyship to see me.’ One thing above all others those last few months had taught me: if you need to grovel, then do it well. People who like power and flattery don’t like them in half-measures. ‘I very much appreciate your condescension.’

  Lady Mallory’s icy manner began to thaw, and, for the first time since my entry to the solar, she noticed that I was not only clean, but personable as well. I don’t know how old she was; certainly not young; probably all of thirty summers, but not too old to be attracted still by men. Her thin lips almost managed a smile.

  ‘My maid tells me that you know of someone else who recently disappeared in London from the Crossed Hands inn. She has given me her garbled version of these events—’ out of the corner of one eye I saw Bess pull a face ‘—but I should wish to hear them from your own lips. You may begin.’

  So I told her all I knew concerning Clement Weaver and explained how I had come by my knowledge. This necessarily entailed some personal history, and the realization that I could read and write thawed her manner even further. The fact that I had very nearly taken holy orders convinced her of my probity; a mistaken conviction, perhaps, in view of some of the priests and princes of the Church whom I have known since then, but a common enough error.

  When I had finished speaking, she made no answer for a while, staring into the flames whose reflections flickered and curtseyed in a wild shadow-dance across the walls. It was growing dark, and already, beyond the windows, a pale scatter of stars gleamed in the dusky heavens. A couple of young lads, fussily tailed by the steward, came in, carrying thick wax candles which they thrust into wall-sconces and lit with tapers from the glowing heart of the fire. Prompted, they closed the shutters against the encroaching night, made their obeisance to Lady Mallory and departed, again closely followed by Robert, who, before making his own deferential bow, sadly raised his eyes to the smoke-blackened ceiling. It was plain he thought himself indispensable to the smooth running of the household.

  When the door had closed, and the echo of his footfalls had died away on the stairs outside, Lady Mallory removed her gaze from contemplation of the hearth and addressed herself at last to me.

  ‘What you have just said is most disturbing. My husband stayed at the Crossed Hands inn two months since, when he went to London, as you have no doubt already learned from Bess. Yet he has stayed there in the past without ill befalling him. So why should it now? And according to your story, no connection was made between the disappearance of this… this…’

  ‘Clement Weaver,’ I put in, and she nodded graciously.

  ‘This Clement Weaver and the Crossed Hands. Indeed if l understand you aright, the boy’s father and uncle made thorough inquiries there.’

  ‘If your ladyship will forgive me, the landlord could hardly be expected to answer their questions truthfully, assuming he had something to hide. And it seems a fair assumption in the circumstances. Until hearing of your husband’s disappearance from Bess, I had been strongly of the opinion that Clement Weaver had been set upon by thieves, robbed and his body disposed of in some manner. Though why footpads should bother to remove all trace of their victim did trouble me a little, I confess… May I inquire what happened to Sir Richard’s and his servant’s horses?’

  ‘They were still tethered in the Crossed Hands yard, the saddle-bags packed and ready for departure. My husband had settled his account earlier in the morning, shortly after rising. He had wished to be off, he said, as soon as possible after breakfast.’

  ‘And that was the last that anyone saw of him? Or said they saw of him?’

  ‘At breakfast, yes.’

  ‘And Jacob Pender?’

  ‘He slept in the stable and ate in the kitchen with the other servants.’

  ‘And the landlord… Do you know the man’s name?’ Lady Mallory shook her head and I continued: ‘The landlord swore to this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What was the last that anyone remembers seeing of your husband and Jacob Pender?’ In my anxiety to get at the facts, I had forgotten, as I had done at the Weavers’, my humble status. I received a sudden flashing look from those haughty eyes and at once set about retrieving my position. ‘If your ladyship will be so gracious as to tell me.’

  ‘They were seen together in the courtyard by one of the cook-maids, through the kitchen window. They were standing by the horses’ heads, talking. She thought they seemed to be arguing, but could not be certain. Just then the cook called her to get water from the well and to start cleaning the vegetables for dinner. It was some while before the girl looked out again, and by that time, my husband and Jacob Pender had vanished. The horses, however, were still there, ready saddled for the journey, tethered to the bar beside the mounting-block.’ Lady Mallory drew a deep breath, steadying her voice. ‘That was the last known sighting of either of them.’

  ‘Provided you believe the girl’s story,’ I said quietly. ‘Presumably it was told to your father or to one of your men?’

  ‘Yes. Wh
en Richard failed to return home on the appointed date, I at first despatched some of my servants to inquire after him along the way. When they came back, having been as far as London without news, and having received this account from the maid at the Crossed Hands inn, my father insisted on going himself. He was very unwell, but I was unable to dissuade him. He, too, could find no trace of my husband or of Jacob Pender, and when he asked after them at the inn, the cook-maid was summoned to tell the same story.’

  ‘And did he believe her?’

  This time, Lady Mallory did not seem to notice my impertinence. She lifted one hand to her face, shielding it from the heat of the fire.

  ‘He had no reason to disbelieve her. There was nothing at all to suggest that Richard and Jacob Pender had come to harm. No bodies have ever been discovered.’ She raised her eyes suddenly and looked straight into mine. ‘They have simply disappeared, like your Clement Weaver, off the face of the earth.’

  Chapter Eight

  In the quiet which followed Lady Mallory’s last remark, Bess stirred uneasily on her stool in the corner, where she had retired to listen. It was as though for the first time some sense of evil or impending disaster had touched her consciousness. I suspected that until now Sir Richard’s disappearance had been something of a joke to her; a cause of prurient speculation that he might have absconded with a secret light-o’-love whom he had maintained in London. Suddenly, the seriousness of the situation, the very real possibility that harm could have befallen her master, had been borne in upon Bess, and she was frightened.

  Her fear seemed to transmit itself to Lady Mallory, whose fingers began closing and unclosing convulsively around the arms of her chair. Perhaps she, too, had toyed with the idea that her husband could have left her for another woman; had not been totally convinced that anything dangerous had happened to him. Bess had assured me that Sir Richard and his wife were happy together, but who knows what really goes on beneath the surface of a marriage? What one partner truly feels for another? Lady Mallory might have had good reason for thinking herself deserted. Certainly she had abandoned her efforts at search with surprising speed, but, to be fair, the death of her father must have considerably occupied her thoughts and time during the past few weeks.