The Hanged Man

Chapter Eleven

There was certain impatience in Alderman Weaver's manner during my second visit, for which I did not blame him. He must have thought himself well rid of me after the first visit, and to find himself face to face with me once more only served to remind him how deeply he was in my debt. And no one likes to be under a permanent obligation, particularly to someone so inferior in station.

I hastened to assure him that I should not trouble him again, and he instantly grew more affable.

'I should not have worried Your Honour now, but that certain information which has come my way leads me to believe that the Irish traders may have been concerned in Master Woodward's disappearance after all, and I wondered…' I hesitated, choosing my words carefully.

'What I would say is, Your Honour seems to have… connections with these, er, gentlemen. Would it therefore be possible for you to tell me where they might be found when in the city?'

'The alderman looked taken aback. 'But I have already old you,' he protested, 'that I have made inquiries, and no sighting of Master Woodward is remembered in Ireland.'

'You said you made inquiries of your friends. I should like to put some questions to the slavers themselves.'

Alderman Weaver appeared even more disconcerted, and drew closer to the fire for comfort. Outside, it was another dank and melancholy day, and through the glass windows, I could see slivers of grey, monotonous sky.

Walking here, in spite of my frieze cloak, I had been chilled to the bone.

'I did not say,' the alderman blustered, 'that I had any contact with the slavers! Merely that I know people who… who could have.' I made no reply, but looked steadily at him, watching the colour fluctuate in the puffy cheeks. After a few moments trying to outstare me, he finally gave in. 'Oh, very well! Perhaps I do know where they may be found. But I warn you, making contact with these men is a dangerous business. In the eyes of the law, they are criminals.'

I refrained from suggesting that they were probably also criminals in the eyes of God because, even then, young as I was, I had discovered that God's law and man's are not always the same: there are too many ambiguous answers to prayer for anyone to speak with confidence on behalf of the Almighty, one of the views which had set me at odds with the Church hierarchy and convinced me that I was not suitable for the monastic life. I said simply, °I am prepared to take risks. And if I can call upon your name for protection, I think they cannot be too great.'

Alderman Weaver seemed to be both pleased and offended, each emotion struggling to gain the upper hand.

Eventually, pride won as he looked through my eyes and saw himself as a man of the world, a person of influence with both high and low.

'Very well. There's an ale-house in Marsh Street. It has no name, but as you approach from the direction of St Stephen's Church, it will be on your right-hand side. It hacks on to the great quay, not far from where the Frome runs into the Avon. The landlord is called Humility Dyson. Mention my name to him and ask for Padraic Kinsale or Briant of Dungarvon. If they're not there, he can usually tell you when they're expected. But take my advice, don't go at night and don't go unarmed. Do you have a cudgel?'

I nodded. 'It's with my pack at Mistress Walker's cottage. Thank you, Your Honour. I'll take up no more of your time.'

The alderman regarded me thoughtfully. 'You'll not discover anything, I'm afraid. I made very careful inquiries, as I told you. Whatever happened to William Woodward, he wasn't taken captive to Ireland.'

It was on the tip of my tongue to take him into my confidence, but I decided against it. He would only scoff at my theory of murder, for it might well implicate one of his friends or the son of one of those friends. As well to leave him in ignorance. So I thanked him yet again for his time and trouble, and left by the street door as, on this occasion, I had entered, much to the housekeeper's indignation. But she made no formal protest; obviously Ned Stoner had enlightened her as to the service I had once rendered the alderman. A chill wind was sweeping Broad Street and I drew in a breath of sharp, cold air.

The morning was beginning to gather pace and the bustle of a large city, the second most important of the kingdom, hummed in my ears. Carts rumbled past, making for one of the city gates, laden with hogsheads of wine, bales of cloth, crates of soap, south to Exeter, Salisbury or Southampton, north to Coventry, Chester or Norwich, following the westerly trade routes into neighbouring Wales, in an easterly direction to Oxford or London. Street-sellers were abroad crying their wares, reminding me sharply that I should be doing the same; shouts and halloos echoed from wharves and quays as the dockmen unloaded ships from Ireland, Cornwall, Spain, Italy, and even from faraway Iceland.

I returned to Mistress Walker's for my dinner to find Lillis absent. In answer to my query, I was told she had gone to eat with Nick Brimble and his old mother, who were both fond of her. I thought there was some slight constraint in Margaret's manner and wondered, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, if Lillis had confided in her the events of the night. But when nothing was said, I decided it must be a guilty conscience and did my best to be cheerful, even ingratiating.

After some absent-minded chatter, I thought it wisest to let Margaret Walker know where I was going, and explained my morning's errand to Alderman Weaver. 'For think it possible that your father may have been carried to Ireland after all,' I said.

She glanced up from her plate, startled. 'You take care,' she advised me. Genuine concern for my safety showed in her face. 'That ale-house has a bad reputation. All the rogues and vagabonds of the city are known to congregate there. They'll cut your throat as soon as give you the time of day. I'm astonished that a man such as Alderman Weaver has intimate knowledge of it.'

I smiled at that. 'Men don't amass fortunes by being scrupulous about who they trade with,' I told her. 'You can't pick and choose in business and must go where there's money to be made. As for myself, I shall take my cudgel with me; my Plymouth cloak, as they call it in the south. I'm big and strong and forewarned of possible danger. I can fend for myself.'

She frowned. 'You've been ill, remember, and still show signs of weakness now and then. Must you go? I thought Alderman Weaver had assured you, as I did, that my father could not possibly have been taken to Ireland.

If that were so, why would he have returned wearing someone else's clothes?'

'That I don't know. But it seems to me that the slavers could have been paid to transport Master Woodward over the water and kill him, so that Robert Herepath might be accused of his murder.'

Margaret considered this for a moment, no trace of hostility now detectable in her manner. She was a quick-witted woman and immediately saw my meaning, 'But,' she asked, 'in that case, why not dispatch Father in the cottage and leave his body to be found?'

'Because it was necessary that the house should be empty when Robert went to steal the money. If he had seen a body, he could have abandoned his purpose and raised the alarm. On the other hand, if the murder had been delayed until after the theft, your father might have awakened and prevented it. So Master Woodward had to be removed, and his own story bears out the idea that he was taken to Ireland, just as his condition testifies to the fact that an attempt was almost certainly made on his life.'

Her frown deepened. 'But that points the finger of suspicion at Edward Herepath. He knew that Father was keeping the money for him until his return from Gloucester and, on his own admission, let the fact slip to his brother.'

'In itself a suspicious circumstance,' I pointed out, 'if you consider his reason for asking Master Woodward to guard his property in the first place. You told me yourself that Edward Herepath thought the money safer in Bell Lane than Small Street because, although he trusted his servants, he could not bring himself to trust Robert.

Nevertheless,' I hastened to assure her, 'that does not mean I necessarily consider Edward Herepath guilty of the plot. There must have been others who knew of his absence from home; others to whom he or your father may have dropped a word, and one of them may have turned the circumstances to his advantage. Someone who hated Robert Herepath — and there seem to have been many such people.'

Margaret Walker bit her underlip. Her dinner had cooled, half-eaten, on her dish, and she pushed it aside.

'But who was to know for certain that Robert would steal the money?'

I shrugged. 'Everyone who knew him, I should fancy.' There was silence, then she gave her head a brisk shake. 'My father wasn't taken to Ireland,' she said with certainty, 'and so you will discover, just as you will find this story of yours is a bag of moonshine. There's no connection but that of accident between my father's disappearance and Robert Herepath being hanged for his murder.'

I saw that there was no arguing with her in this mood.

She had closed her mind to the possibility of being mistaken, and it was up to me to prove her, and all the others who agreed with her, wrong. I rose from the table and fetched my cudgel from its resting place, propped in a comer of the cottage beside my pack. As I once more wrapped myself in my cloak, Margaret spoke my name. I looked round, suddenly wary.

She had risen to her feet and was propping herself against the table behind her with white-knuckled hands.

'Roger…' She stopped, as if wondering how to continue.

Then she said, 'Roger, Lillis is young for her years… irresponsible. She does not always foresee the… the,consequences of her… her actions. But you are just the opposite. You have a wise head on your shoulders. l… I trust you.'

I could not meet her eyes. She was suspicious, but hoped that her suspicion was misplaced. Lillis had not said anything, but something in her manner had made Margaret uneasy. I mumbled a few words and hurriedly left the cottage, making my way back across the bridge and turning towards Marsh Street.

From St Nicholas Back, I walked through the bustle of Ballance Street, which skirts the great marsh itself, until I could clearly see the spire of St Stephen's Church rising above the houses. From there it was but a step before I swung left into Marsh Street, swarming as it always was at any time of the day with sailors, that fraternity of the sea who live largely by their own rules and pay little heed to the rest of us landlubbers. But they were not entirely lawless. I was later told that a levy of fourpence a ton on all cargo arriving at the port provided homes for a priest and a dozen poor mariners whose seafaring days were done, and whose prayers were offered regularly twice a day for all those still labouring upon the oceans. I wish I might have known it at the time, for my heart would not have hammered quite so fast as I crossed the threshold of the ale-house.

It was dark inside, there being no windows, only rushlights and tallow candles which could easily be doused in the event of a visit from the sheriff or his sergeants.

A beaten-earth floor was dotted with long wooden tables and benches, and casks of ale, two rows deep, were ranged against one wall. There was a second door opposite the one by which I had entered, opening on to the quayside. A narrow stone staircase led to the upper storey where, presumably, Humility Dyson lived. The landlord himself was a huge man in a leather apron, black-bearded and with arms on which the muscles were knotted like fists. Alderman Weaver had not described him to me, but his air of authority was unmistakable.

As I paused in the doorway, there was a disturbing quiet. Men who, a moment earlier, had been chatting with their fellows, fell silent, and all heads were turned in my direction. There was a definite air of menace in the room.

I stood my ground, however, unable to see much at first in the sudden transition from light to dark, and tightened my grip on my cudgel, ready to lay about me if necessary.

But gradually, as the drinkers took in my size and the way I was dressed, the babel of talk resumed. I was no longer being watched, at least not overtly; but I knew one false move would place me in immediate danger. I waited, therefore, until Humility Dyson approached me.

'And what's your wish, Master?' he grunted. 'Our ale's good, I grant you, but you'd do better supping at some of the other inns in the city.'

I ignored this unfriendly opening and said, 'I was recommended to come here by Alderman Weaver. He thinks you might be able to help me.'

Humility Dyson scratched his beard while looking me up and down. 'Alderman Weaver, is it?' he muttered presently. 'Well, and in what way does he think I can be of assistance?'

'I'm looking for two men, Padraic Kinsale and Briant of Dungarvon.'

The already small eyes seemed to contract with suspicion even as he watched me. 'What's your business'?' he demanded.

'That's between me and them.' I hoped I sounded bolder than I felt. My palms were sweating and my hold on the cudgel was growing slippery.

I had no idea what I should do if he challenged me further, but after another stare he said grudgingly, 'Wait outside and I'll ask if they're willing to speak with you.' My relief at finding the Irishmen present outweighed my uneasiness, and it was with a sense of elation that I stepped again into Marsh Street, letting the thick leather curtain which covered the doorway swing to behind me.

A flock of seagulls swooped down, greedily pecking at the offal in the sewer.

After what seemed only seconds, the landlord pulled back the curtain and jerked his head. 'They'll see you. But watch your step, stranger. If this is a trick, you and whoever you've led here won't live to tell the tale.'

'I'm on my own,' I said. 'There's no one following me.' Humility Dyson preceded me back inside. He waited a moment while my eyes grew accustomed once more to the darkness, then nodded towards a table in the furthest comer from the door, unlit even by a rushlight. I could just discern its outline and the shapes of two men sitting at it. No one looked up as I made my way between the intervening tables, but I felt as though dozens of eyes were boring into my back the moment I had passed.

Both Irishmen were completely in shadow, and it was impossible to see either of their faces properly. Afterwards, two pairs of glittering eyes and the brogue common to the area of southern Ireland, round about Waterford was all that stayed with me.

'Well?' one of them murmured as I remained silent.

Now that the moment had come to speak, the folly of what I was doing swept over me: to ask two desperados if they had been paid to kill a man was the act of a brainless idiot. But I have done that all my life, rushed in where angels will not tread, only to find the Devil at my heels.

This time, fortunately for me, I was spared the necessity of putting the question into words.

'Humility says that Alderman Weaver sent you,' said the second man, 'therefore I think you must be asking about someone who disappeared and was thought to be murdered, but came back home as large as life. What was his name now, Padraic?'

'William Woodward,' I answered before the other Irishman could open his mouth.

'So it was. Well, Master-?'

'Roger. Roger the Chapman.'

'Well, Master Chapman, Alderman Weaver did right to send you to us, for although Padraic and I are not the only slavers working out of Bristol — there are plenty of Bristol men themselves playing the game — we being Irish know more of what goes on once the cargoes are delivered, and have many contacts among both the men who run the markets and their buyers.' Briant of Dungarvon — for who else could he be, having addressed his friend as Padraic? — folded his arms together on the table and turned his head to face me more directly. 'So I say to you what we have already told the alderman, there is no trace to be found anywhere of anyone resembling this William Woodward. People would remember an elderly man with a broken head. No slaver could be rid of him.' There was a soft chuckle from the other side of the table. 'I think our friend here,' said Padraic, 'might be entertaining the fancy that perhaps we were offered money to take the unfortunate man to Ireland and there dispose of him. Isn't that so, Master Chapman?' 'It… It had crossed my m-mind,' I stuttered.

'In that case,' Briant continued in the same gentle tone, but with such a hint of menace that my blood ran cold, 'you have the wrong men. We have our principles, don't we, Padraic?'

The other man nodded. 'We do that, and murdering someone in cold blood is not one of them. Of course, we can't speak for your fellow citizens, if it's a Bristol man you are, for in general they're a band of cut-throats. But think on this.' Padraic leaned towards me across the table.

'If the job was botched, as it must have been, someone somewhere along the coast surely had to see or hear something of a man wandering loose in such a state. And we tell you — ' he rapped the table to emphasize his words ' — at Alderman Weaver's request, and because he paid us well, Briant and I spent weeks, even months making inquiries for any sighting of this man, but no one, anywhere, recalled seeing hide or hair of him. Not so much as a smell.' He raised his finger. 'So! We say again to you what we said to His Honour. This man, William Woodward, wherever else he was, was never in Ireland.'