Nine Men Dancing

Ten

I walked back along the village street, encountering one or two curious glances, and several disapproving looks from people who either knew or guessed where I had been. Others, busy about their daily business, ignored me. A few hailed me in a friendly fashion, but with that element of reserve in their greeting that reminded me I was a stranger in their midst, and therefore to be treated with caution. I smiled at them all, but did not stop until I reached the priest’s house, just beyond Saint Walburga’s Church.

The main door stood hospitably open, and I entered without knocking. I found myself once again in the hall, with the staircase to my left and three doors to my right, the first two separated by a small stone hearth, empty except for a couple of logs, gathering dust.

I raised my voice and called, ‘Sir Anselm!’

An answering shout invited me into the kitchen. This, if I remembered correctly, was the third door along. Hercules, however, had already preceded me, recalling where he had been fed and watered the previous afternoon and hoping for similar largesse today. I followed him.

The priest was standing by the table, in the centre of the rush-strewn floor, washing the silver chalice that had held the wine for the morning’s service. Seated opposite him, keeping his balance on a rickety stool, was Ned Rawbone.

‘Come in, chapman! Come in!’ Father Anselm beckoned with a dripping hand, describing, as he did so, an arc of rainbow-hued droplets that hung momentarily in the air, and then were gone. ‘Do you know Edward Rawbone? From Dragonswick Farm?’

I leaned on my cudgel and nodded towards my fellow visitor.

‘I saw Master Rawbone in church yesterday morning, and again, later in the day, at the farmhouse, when I was there at the request of Dame Jacquetta. But so far, we haven’t spoken.’

Ned looked startled. I guess he would have said he didn’t know me: neither meeting had made any impression on him.

The priest continued, ‘Ned is the Warden of our Lamp Fund, particularly the Alms Light. He ensures that we have sufficient money for lamp oil from the sale of fleeces from two of the Dragonswick sheep, especially earmarked for the purpose … Now, there’s another stool around here, somewhere. Sit down and make yourself comfortable while I finish drying this bowl. Then I’ll find us something to eat. It must be nearly ten o’clock and dinnertime.’

I found the stool, tucked away beside a pile of brushwood, and did as I was bidden, ignoring Hercules’s reproachful stare. He had expected to be fed at once. I dropped my cudgel on the floor, rested my elbows on the table and smiled at Ned Rawbone.

There was no answering smile, only a suspicious glance from those extremely blue eyes, so like his father’s. He had removed his hood, and now put up a hand to subdue his unruly thatch of hair. I noticed several streaks of grey amongst the brown. A handsome man, as I remarked earlier, in a weather-beaten way. (But what else should I have expected from a man who spent most of his life out of doors? I must be weather-beaten myself, when I stopped to think about it.)

‘Are you the pedlar who’s been asking questions about Eris Lilywhite?’ he demanded bluntly, just as I had decided that I must break the silence, and had opened my mouth to speak.

‘Er, yes,’ I admitted.

‘Why?’

‘W-why?’ My tongue stumbled a little, as I was caught off guard.

‘Yes. Why? What’s she to you?’

I took a deep breath and steadied my voice. I would not be browbeaten.

‘Dame Theresa Lilywhite has requested me to find out, if I can, what has become of her granddaughter.’

Ned Rawbone muttered something under his breath that I was unable to catch, then asked, ‘And has anyone talked to you on the subject?’ He cocked a suspicious eye at the priest.

Sir Anselm suddenly looked very hot, but it could simply have been the exertion of giving the chalice a final, vigorous rub.

‘Your aunt, Dame Jacquetta, was most voluble on the subject,’ I answered, with a certain amount of malicious satisfaction.

‘Oh, she would be!’ Ned exclaimed, flushing angrily. ‘I might have guessed it! She’d never be able to resist you.’

I ignored the jibe. ‘Why don’t you give me your account of what happened on the night of the storm?’ I suggested.

For reply, he put a question of his own. ‘What does Maud Lilywhite have to say on the subject of your interference?’

It would have been easy to resent the word ‘interference’, but it seemed as pointless as lying.

‘I don’t think she wants me to discover the truth,’ I confessed. ‘As long as she remains in ignorance of Eris’s fate, she can imagine that her daughter is still alive.’

Ned Rawbone nodded. ‘Exactly! Then why don’t you respect her wishes? Maud’s the person most closely concerned, after all.’

‘I hate a mystery,’ I told him frankly. ‘And I hate even more the notion that there’s a murderer walking around free somewhere. A man who’s robbed a young girl of her life.’

‘Why a man?’ he wanted to know. He had absent-mindedly taken the silver chalice between his hands and was twisting it round and around. The priest had gone outside to empty the basin of water and to hang his washing-cloth on a bush to dry. ‘Why not a woman?’

I glanced sharply at Ned, but his gaze was concentrated on the bowl, following the rotating pattern of leaves and figures. I watched it with him for a moment or two.

‘You think a woman might have killed Eris Lilywhite?’ I prompted at last.

He shrugged. ‘If Eris was murdered – and I emphasize that “if” – then why not? Rosamund Bush and her mother, Dame Winifred, are both known to have uncertain tempers.’

I put out a hand and gripped the rim of the chalice to prevent it revolving further: the movement was making me dizzy. Sir Anselm reappeared and, having put away his basin and polishing rags, carried off the cup to the church, presumably to lock it in the aumbry.

‘Do you think it possible, or even likely,’ I asked Ned Rawbone scathingly, ‘that either Mistress Bush or her daughter would have been out of doors, running around the countryside on such a night? I understand there was a terrible storm.’

Ned got to his feet. ‘How do I know? How can anyone know what happened, apart from Eris and her killer? If there was a killer.’

‘You can’t believe that she simply ran away!’

He turned on me, almost savagely.

‘Why not? Anyone who was responsible for so much wickedness and deceit might well have been shamed into removing herself elsewhere.’

I asked levelly, ‘Do you really believe that Eris Lilywhite ran away?’

‘What I believe in is keeping my thoughts and opinions to myself,’ he responded angrily, pushing past me and almost knocking me off my stool. The priest had again returned to the kitchen and was regarding us both anxiously, aware of raised voices and the heightened tension between us. The farmer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll call in sometime this evening, Father, and let you have the money for the lamp oil. You say Henry Carter is travelling to Gloucester tomorrow? He can purchase however much you need and bring it back with him.’

‘You mustn’t mind his brusqueness,’ the priest consoled me when Ned had gone, banging the outer door behind him. (Not that I was in need of consolation. I was reconciled to rubbing people up the wrong way.) ‘It’s possible that he’s secretly afraid that Tom’s guilty and doesn’t want you – or anybody else, for that matter – turning up evidence that might seem to confirm it.’

He bustled about, setting a pot of fish stew over his meagre fire to heat, cutting up the heel of a coarse barley loaf and bringing out of a cupboard a piece of mouldy goat’s milk cheese. Obviously, unlike many of his kind, he had never mastered the art of good living. (On reflection, I felt thankful that he had not invited me to stay to supper the previous evening.)

I said little until the meal, such as it was, had been set before us on the table. The priest put a third bowl of stew on the floor for Hercules, who seemed to have no difficulty with the fact that the broth was not only lukewarm and extremely greasy, but also full of lumps of dried cod that were as tough as leather. (A very dry cod indeed was my guess, and only partially soaked before it was cooked.) In fact, having wolfed down one lot, Hercules sat up and begged for more.

‘I like a dog with a healthy appetite,’ Sir Anselm observed, ladling a second helping into Hercules’s bowl from the pot, which had now been removed from the fire. (The stew looked even more unappetizing than it had before.) I stirred my own portion and tried to appear as though I were enjoying it.

‘So,’ I said at last, ‘what do you think is the answer to Eris Lilywhite’s disappearance, Father?’

‘My son, your guess is as good as mine, or as anyone else’s in this village.’ He rose from his stool and went to draw two cups of surprisingly tasty ale from a barrel in the corner, then returned to the table and resumed eating, all without once meeting my gaze.

‘You must have some theory,’ I persisted, but he only shook his head, still without looking at me. Finally, however, reluctantly, he did raise his eyes to mine.

‘Chapman, my earnest advice to you is to leave matters well alone. The girl has gone and the village is a better place without her. That, you may think, is not a very charitable thing to say, but I can assure you it’s the truth. From the time she first began to realize that she had the sort of beauty men run mad for, Eris was trouble, playing off one young fellow against the other. No one can say for certain that she’s dead; that she’s been murdered. If there was proof, it might be different. It would be different. The murderer would have to be brought to justice. But as things are, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. A Sheriff’s Officer came from Gloucester shortly after Eris was reported missing to make enquiries; but although he was naturally very suspicious of Tom Rawbone, without witnesses or a body, no arrest could be made.’

‘If Eris has run away, where might she have gone?’ I asked.

Sir Anselm scratched his head. ‘There’s her great-aunt, who lives in Gloucester. But as Theresa Lilywhite was staying with her sister when Eris vanished, it’s reasonable to suppose that the girl didn’t go there. Moreover, subsequent investigations at the great-aunt’s house proved fruitless. There are also, I understand, some distant Haycombe cousins who live near Dursley, but they are almost total strangers even to Maud. She was adamant that the girl would never have thought of them. Although, once again, I believe someone did pay them a visit, just to check, but she hadn’t been near them.’ The priest picked a sliver of fish from between his teeth and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment or two before swallowing it. ‘But it’s perfectly possible,’ he went on, ‘that Eris just ran away, not to anyone in particular, but simply to seek her fortune. To make a new life for herself. Even as we speak, she could be working as a cook-maid in the kitchens of someone’s hall or castle. Or as companion to some lonely old lady.’ Sir Anselm paused, presumably to consider this charming picture. Then his eyes met mine once more, and he sighed heavily as though acknowledging my right to be sceptical.

With great difficulty, I managed to get down the last spoonful of broth and pushed my bowl aside. Then I cleansed my palate with a draft of good ale.

‘Father,’ I said, ‘let’s assume for the sake of argument that Eris was murdered. On her way home, somewhere between Dragonswick Farm and the Lilywhite smallholding, soaked to the skin, head down against the wind and rain, she ran into … someone. Someone who, perhaps, did not at first intend to kill her, but who was so infuriated by the events of that evening that he – or she – was incapable of self-control when confronted by the cause of all the trouble. Who – again just for the sake of argument – do you think that someone could have been?’

Sir Anselm breathed deeply. ‘My son, I cannot say.’

I was about to deride his caution and timidity, when I hesitated. There had been something about his reply, some slight inflection in his voice, the merest emphasis on the word ‘cannot’, that arrested and held my attention. As if sensing my sudden suspicion, he bent down and began to make much of Hercules, who immediately jumped on to his lap and started to lick his face. I said no more, but just sat there, thinking.

The priest knew something, I was convinced of it. But what? Was it possible that the murderer had confessed his or her crime, knowing the secret to be safe if made in the sanctuary of the confessional? Had all that Sir Anselm said so far been merely a blind in order to deceive me and everyone else into thinking him as ignorant as ourselves? ‘I cannot say,’ he had said. Yet that slight stress on the word ‘cannot’ was hardly a sound enough foundation on which to build a solid theory. ‘Bricks without straw, my lad,’ I told myself severely, but it had no effect. My conviction that the priest possessed the answer to the mystery had taken root and refused to be easily dislodged.

He was deliberately allowing himself to be distracted by Hercules, so I leaned over, lifted the dog off his lap and dropped the animal to the floor. Hercules, incensed, ran to the kitchen door, scratching at it and barking to be let out. I ordered him, pretty sharply, to desist; so, recognizing the tone of voice, he retired under the table to sulk.

I stretched out a hand and gripped the priest’s wrist.

‘Father,’ I said gently, ‘when you say that you cannot say, does that mean you know no more than I do? Or does it mean … something else?’

He disengaged his arm. ‘It means just that, chapman. Don’t read more into the remark than is intended. Let us hope that wherever Eris Lilywhite is now, she has repented of her sins and is happy.’

There was a protracted silence, then I nodded.

‘Very well … But I beg you to be careful, especially if you are in possession of dangerous knowledge.’

‘All knowledge is dangerous,’ he answered tartly, ‘as Adam and Eve discovered when they ate the apple in the Garden of Eden.’

‘All right,’ I laughed. ‘Let’s change the subject … What do you know about the murder of two men who sank the well in Upper Brockhurst Hall?’

Sir Anselm stared at me blankly while his mind adjusted to this totally unexpected twist in the conversation. At length, however, he said, frowning, ‘I’ve heard the story, of course. I’ve been priest in this village for more then twenty years.’ He indulged himself with a momentary reminiscence. ‘It must be all of that, I daresay. I went through the usual progression, acolyte, subdeacon, deacon before being ordained a priest, but I eventually came to Lower Brockhurst in the same year that the Earl of Warwick, who was then Keeper of the Sea, defeated the Spanish fleet off Calais, on Trinity Sunday morning. That must be over a score of years ago, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Probably,’ I agreed. ‘But as I would only have been five or six at the time, I can’t be certain. Anyway,’ I continued, ‘you’re familiar with the story?’

‘No one can live here for twenty years and not be familiar with it. It’s one of the legends of the place, all the more enduring because the mystery of who did it has never been resolved.’ He added curiously, ‘Why do you ask? It can have nothing to do with what we’ve been talking about. Or are you hoping to solve a 130-year-old murder as well?’

I didn’t reply directly. I leaned my elbows on the table and cupped my chin in my hands. ‘Do you have any thoughts on the subject?’ I asked him.

The priest laughed dismissively. ‘My son, I have other things to occupy my attention than a murder committed all that time ago. What is the point? Even if there were the remotest chance of solving the mystery, it’s far too late. No one can be brought to justice for the crime now.’ He regarded me straitly. ‘What makes you ask? You can’t think that it has any connection with the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite, surely?’

I grimaced. ‘I must admit I’m unable to see how the two events could be linked. It’s just that I have this irrational feeling – a conviction, almost – that somehow or other they are. All nonsense, of course! A hundred and thirty years is a long time.’

‘A very long time,’ Sir Anselm agreed.

‘Where were the bodies found?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

He puckered his forehead. ‘In the woods not far from the Hall, I’ve always been led to believe. But whether or not that tradition is correct, I wouldn’t like to say with any certainty.’

‘But if you’re right, the men hadn’t got far before being set upon. Why do you think they were killed, Father?’

‘What a question! How do I know? But judging by what I’ve been told, robbery would not seem to be the answer. Not unless, that is, the robbers were disturbed by someone or something before they could empty the men’s purses.’

‘I suppose that is a possibility.’

But there was no point in pursuing the subject. At this distance of time, the priest could have no more notion than I, or anyone else, of the truth of the matter. So I changed the subject yet again and invited him to tell me all he knew about the Lilywhites. ‘Were you the priest here when Maud Haycombe and Gilbert Lilywhite were married?’

‘Most certainly. I married them. In fact, I remember when Gilbert first arrived in Lower Brockhurst from Gloucester. He came to dig a new well for the village, and never went home again. Fell in love with Maud instead.’

‘Someone-’ I decided it might be better not to mention Alice Tucker – ‘told me that Ned Rawbone wanted to marry Mistress Maud, but was forbidden to do so by his father. Is that true?’

The priest cut himself a piece of cheese with his knife and stuffed it in his mouth, thus rendering further conversation impossible for at least a minute. Finally, he admitted thickly, ‘I think there may have been some tenderness between them. On his part, at least.’

‘Not on hers?’

He cleaned around his teeth with his tongue. ‘Well, if there was, it obviously didn’t survive Gilbert’s arrival. Gilbert and Maud were wed within two months of him appearing in the village. They wasted no time once the banns were called. Neither her father nor his mother were pleased about it, but it didn’t deter them. Dame Theresa, who came from Gloucester for the wedding, made her objections plain from the start. She considered her son had married beneath him. She despised the country and country people. The fact that Maud was sole heir to her father’s smallholding didn’t impress Theresa. She looked on farming as “grubbing a living from dirt”. That’s what she said. She insisted that Gilbert could make better money as a weller.’

‘He didn’t continue in his calling, then?’

Sir Anselm shook his head. ‘It was one of old Haycombe’s conditions for consenting to the marriage that Gilbert should give up his trade and help out on the smallholding.’

‘And he was willing to do that?’

‘Of course. He and Maud were very much in love. It was no surprise to anyone when Eris was born just under nine months later.’

I thought about this. ‘Are you suggesting that Maud might have been with child before they married?’ Father Anselm nodded. ‘Did they ever have any more children?’

‘Two boys, both of whom died young. They were sickly from birth; fragile-looking, like Gilbert. Eris was the only one with health and strength, a fine child who grew into a beautiful woman. A beauty, alas, that was to prove destructive, not only to herself but also to other people.’

We were silent for a moment, contemplating that destruction, during which time Hercules emerged from under the table and went to scratch and whine again at the kitchen door. With a sigh, I got up and let him into the hall, where I was immediately conscious of a draught from the open front door, swinging wide on its creaking hinges.

‘Master Rawbone must have left it open,’ I said to the priest, who had joined me, tuttutting under his breath.

‘Not Ned’s fault.’ He hastened to close it. ‘Sometimes the latch springs after it’s been shut. The wood is old and has warped. There, that’s got it. Does your dog want to go out? If so, take him into the yard at the back.’

But Hercules, perverse as ever, returned to the warmth of the kitchen, his urgent desire to relieve himself evidently having evaporated at the first whiff of cold air. Sir Anselm and I followed him, resuming our places at the table.

I asked, ‘How old was Eris when her father died?’

My companion poured more ale.

‘Well, let me see, Gilbert died the same year the Duke of Gloucester married the Lady Anne Neville. When would that have been?’

‘Seven years ago next month,’ I answered promptly. I had good reason to remember the date. I had been instrumental in helping Duke Richard to find his future wife after George of Clarence had hidden her in the city of London, disguised as a cook-maid.

If the priest was surprised by the accuracy of my reply, he didn’t show it.

‘Then Eris would have been about ten years old,’ he said. ‘A bad age for any child to be left without a father, but especially one left in the care of a mother and doting grandmother. Dame Theresa came for her son’s funeral and, unfortunately perhaps, never returned home. I don’t think her visit was intended to be permanent, not to begin with at least, and I’m sure Maud didn’t want her to stay. The two women never really got on. Maud resented, not unnaturally, her mother-in-law’s belief that Gilbert had married beneath him. But they rubbed along together without any overt hostility, and if the truth be told, they must both have been lonely. Maud’s father had died several years before.’

‘You said that Dame Theresa was a doting grandmother. What about Mistress Lilywhite? Was she a doting mother?’

The priest sucked his teeth, no doubt searching for more scraps of food. ‘I think she did try to instil some sense of discipline into Eris, but the child was too self-willed, like Dame Theresa. Maud herself is a biddable woman, shy and retiring; someone who dislikes confrontation. And now,’ he added, swallowing his ale, ‘I’ve talked enough about the Lilywhites. My advice to you, chapman, is to do as Maud wants. Leave well alone. Eris is … has gone. William Bush and his family and the Rawbones are just beginning to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and put them back together again.’

I made no answer for a moment, then leaned forward and once more gripped the priest’s wrist.

‘Sir Anselm,’ I urged, ‘If you know anything, anything at all, concerning Eris, you would do better to share it with someone.’

‘You, I suppose?’ he asked mockingly.

‘Not necessarily, although it might not be a bad idea. But if not me, then go to the Sheriff’s Officer in Gloucester. Tell him what you know.’ I shook his arm. ‘You may be in some danger if you don’t.’

He smiled and patted my hand. ‘I’m in no danger, my son. Because,’ he went on hastily, ‘I don’t know anything. Now, let us drop the subject. Is there something else you want to ask me? Provided, of course, that it doesn’t touch on the subject of the Lilywhites.’

I removed my hand from his wrist.

‘Very well.’ There was nothing further I could say. After all, I might have been mistaken about the extent of his knowledge, my imagination running away with me as usual. So I accepted defeat on that score and changed the subject for a third time. ‘Who is it,’ I wanted to know, ‘who hangs the corn dollies and clooties on the trees around Upper Brockhurst?’

‘My son, I’ve no idea and I don’t enquire. Oh, you probably think it very lax of me, but the old religion still flourishes in many places throughout the western counties. It does no harm that I can see. Not, I admit, a view that would find favour with my superiors. Indeed, it would probably be regarded as heresy and lead to my being hailed before a church court without delay. But I can, I’m sure, trust you to keep my secret. And I very much doubt if I’m the only priest who takes this stand. The early Church itself was built on the marriage of Christian rites with pagan. Easter, the greatest festival of all, is celebrated to coincide with the festival of Eostra, the Norse goddess of spring. Christmas was when our forefathers welcomed back the lengthening days. The Green Man, Robin Goodfellow, the gods of the trees, they all lead men to worship. God may not be one Person, chapman. He may not even be Three in One or One in Three. He may have many faces and forms.’ Sir Anselm smiled. ‘There, now! I’ve put my life in your hands. You see how I trust you!’

But not enough, I thought, to confide in me what you know concerning Eris Lilywhite’s disappearance.