The Hanged Man

Chapter Eight

Edward Herepath was a handsome man, tall, broad shouldered, with a heavily jowled face and a square chin made even more so by a short, square-cut beard. Both beard and hair, the latter modishly cropped just below the ears, were dark brown, shot through with glints of red, and the eyes were that indeterminate shade of blue which in certain lights can easily be mistaken for grey. His tunic of russet-coloured wool was not so short as might have been worn by a younger man — the male fashion in those days was for an almost vulgar emphasis on loins and buttocks — but neither was it so long as to risk being dubbed outdated. His shoes, of fine green leather, were fashionably piked, but again reasonably so, the pointed toes still allowing ease of movement. Altogether, I decided, a man who took pride in his appearance, but also one conscious of his dignity and not prepared to sacrifice it by succumbing to the extreme follies of youth.

'Well?' he prompted, after a moment of tongue-tied silence on my part. 'You wish to talk to me about my brother. You are lodging, so Alderman Weaver informs me, with Mistress Walker and her daughter, Lillis.'

'Yes. I was taken ill some weeks ago, on my arrival in Bristol, and these women were good enough to take me in and nurse me back to health. In due time they told me their story. It distresses them that people look at them askance, as though they were privy to whatever happened to Master Woodward. I have therefore promised that, insofar as it is possible, I will try to discover the truth.'

Edward Herepath raised strongly marked eyebrows. 'And you desire my blessing?' His voice grew harsh. 'What is done is done, and nothing you or anyone can find out now will give my brother back his life. It is a tragedy which Mistress Ford and I must learn to live with, but at least time may reconcile us in some small degree to the dreadful consequences. If, however, you rake over the dead ashes of our grief, then you risk inflaming them anew:'

Before I could make reply, Cicely Ford slid off the window-seat and came forward to stand behind her guardian's chair, one delicate, blue-veined hand pressing his shoulder.

'Edward,' she said quietly, 'I understand how you feel. Indeed, who better? But the truth can harm no one. Perhaps we ourselves would benefit from knowing exactly what happened. And we cannot let the innocent suffer unjustly. If, as Master Chapman says, Mistress Walker and her daughter are being held responsible for Master Woodward's actions by some members of the weavers' brotherhood, then that is unfair, for I would stake my life that they knew no more than he did, poor man. I only wish you had felt able to visit him with me, for you would have seen for yourself that he had been so greatly abused that he retained no knowledge of what had befallen him. And the women were equally bewildered.'

Edward Herepath raised one of his hands and covered hers, but did not speak for several moments. It was plain to me that he was in a dilemma. His natural instinct was to let sleeping dogs lie, or, as he himself had put it, not to rake over old ashes. At the same time he wanted to please Cicely. If she had the courage to face renewed suffering in order to alleviate that of other people, then he had no wish to appear a coward in her eyes. To refuse my request would make him seem callous, indifferent to Margaret Walker's situation.

He twisted round and looked at her. 'Sweetheart, are you sure of this? Is it what you really want? Consider! Just by coming here this afternoon, Master Chapman has already caused us both great pain, and will probably grieve us more before he has finished. And for what? There is no certainty that he will be able to discover anything. Indeed, I consider it highly unlikely. I made what inquiries I could at the time, as did Alderman Weaver on behalf of Mistress Walker and her daughter. But to no avail.' He gently squeezed Cicely's hand. 'Will you not be guided by me, and let the matter rest?' Cicely stooped, kissing him lightly on the forehead, and as she did so, I noticed how convulsively his other hand gripped his chair arm. It came to me that Edward Herepath, too, had fallen under the spell of this lovely girl; that he felt more for her than just the protective affection of a guardian. My heart went out to him, for it was not simply that he was so much older than she, nor that the love she felt for him was so obviously filial, but that even if he were able, eventually, to overcome both these obstacles, he could never hope to rival a dead man. And not just a dead man, but one who commanded Cicely's eternal devotion and penance. For whatever Robert Herepath's shortcomings in life, however much misery he had caused, the nature and circumstances of his death ensured him the status of a martyr in her eyes. Her fragile shoulders were bowed down by a weight of guilt almost too great for her to bear. And against all that, how could Edward Herepath possibly compete?

Cicely came round the side of his chair and knelt down, looking up at him earnestly. 'Dear Edward, I do understand your misgivings, but please let me have my way in this. I feel a great need to find out as much as I can about the reasons for Robert's death. There is so much unexplained, not least the sense that some evil was abroad which set every man's hand against him. Oh, I know what you would say! That Robert himself was the cause, but I refuse to accept that. In part it was true. He was wild, he didn't care who he offended. But that doesn't explain why we all turned on him and believed him guilty of murder, even though there was no body. You and Alderman Weaver have done your best to discover the truth, and failed. So give this young man a chance. The alderman speaks of him in his letter as the person responsible for finding out what happened to his son. If that is so, then maybe he can unravel this mystery for us.' She gripped Edward's sleeve until her knuckles showed white against the russet. 'Please. For my sake, give him leave to try.' I don't know who could have resisted her pleading, the blinding tears in those cornflower-blue eyes. Certainly I could not, and neither it appeared could Edward Herepath, for he heaved a resigned sigh and patted her cheek. 'Dry your eyes, my dear child. If it means so much to you, I'll grant the chapman my blessing, albeit reluctantly.' Cicely gave him a watery smile and rose to her feet, dabbing her eyes with a fragment of embroidered linen.

It was the first time I had ever seen anyone use a handkerchief although they had been a commonplace among the nobility since their introduction almost a hundred years before by King Richard. I had a sudden, vivid picture of how Lillis would look if she cried, red-nosed and sniffing loudly, and could not help contrasting it with the restrained emotion of the girl in front of me. Cicely Ford had completely bewitched me.

Edward Herepath straightened his back, placed the tips of his fingers together and regarded me straitly. 'Very well, young man, as Mistress Ford is so insistent you should try, you have my permission to inquire into Master Woodward's disappearance and find out what you can. Is there anything you would wish to ask me?' Cicely retired once more to the window-seat, out of my line of vision, and I regretfully tore my eyes away to refocus them on her guardian.

'I was wondering, sir, if you could explain how it was that William Woodward came to work for you as your debt collector when he had spent all his life in weaving and, moreover, at an age when his daughter thought him too old to work much longer.'

Edward Herepath frowned. 'Is such questioning strictly necessary? Very well! Very well! I gave my word.' This at a slight stirring behind him from Cicely. He continued testily, 'I cannot recollect all the circumstances. It is almost five years ago. He had never been more than an indifferent weaver. His masterpiece was never accepted by the Guild and he remained a journeyman all his life. The man I employed to collect my rents had recently married a Keynsham girl and had quit my service to live in her home village. He had given me very little prior warning and I needed someone quickly to take his place.'

'But why William Woodward?' I persisted.

Edward shrugged irritably. 'I believe, if memory serves me aright, that he asked himself if he might enter my employ. He was tired of living with his daughter. There were disagreements between them, and he knew that the cottage in Bell Lane was my property and always let, rent free, to my debt collector. He fancied his independence and considered himself capable of doing the job.'

'But did you?' I persisted. 'William Woodward was not a young man. According to Mistress Walker's calculations, her father must have been in his fifty-ninth year when he abandoned weaving and came to work for you. An advanced age for a man to be still working at the looms, let alone taking up the strenuous task of debt collecting. Did none of these things weigh with you?'

Edward Herepath frowned and stirred angrily in his chair. I realized that my questioning had been too blunt and, as well, had probably sounded a note of censure which he rightly resented. He had allowed me to interrogate him as a favour. I must watch my step.

Nevertheless, he answered with only a hint of testiness.

'William Woodward was a big, strong man, well set-up, for all that he was grey-haired. People were a little afraid of him, a little in awe of his size and strength. At least, that was my impression. Yes, I did think him capable of doing the job, and doing it well, and my belief was justified. During the four years he was in my employ, I had fewer bad debts than theretofore. As you may have been told, I have much property both in and around Bristol, and William was adept at making certain the rents were collected. I did not inquire what methods he used to ensure prompt payment. I was merely thankful that the unpleasantness of calling on the sheriff's officers to evict or threaten defaulters became less and less frequent.' Once again, Edward Herepath frowned, but this time it was not I who was the object of his disapproval. 'Perhaps I was wrong not to keep a stricter eye on William. Maybe he made greater enemies than Miles Huckbody, who, I know, swore vengeance on him on more than one occasion.'

'Miles Huckbody?' I queried.

Edward Herepath roused himself from a momentary reverie and, reaching out with one elegantly shod foot, kicked the slumbering fire into life. Flames licked at the edges of the logs, sending shadows soaring. The blues and ochres of the wall-hangings faded, and the reds ran together, mingling like blood.

'What? Oh, Miles Huckbody. His wife and child rented a cottage and field from me near the King's Wood, but the man fell ill and was unable to work the land. His wife struggled as best she could for a while, but the crops dwindled and the pig died and they were eventually unable to produce enough to live on, let alone to sell.' Edward Herepath sighed. 'Instead of consulting me, William took it upon himself to have the family evicted and, by the time I was aware of what had happened, it was too late. They had gone. But Miles Huckbody later reappeared in Bristol. His wife and child had apparently died, and he himself was sick and destitute. He was taken in by the fraternity of the Bons-Hommes, who run the Gaunts' Hospital close by Saint Augustine's Abbey. They clothe, feed and house some hundred poor souls, thanks to the charitable munificence, two centuries or more ago, of Maurice and Henry de Gaunt and their nephew, Robert de Gourney.' He added with civic pride: 'Bristol folk look after their own.'

But not enough, I thought, to prevent their eviction in the first place. On the other hand, business is business, as any Bristolian, then or now, will tell you.

Aloud, I asked, 'And Miles Huckbody is known to have threatened the well-being of Master Woodward?'

'So William himself informed me. He met the man once, down in the broad meads, near the house of the Dominican friars, and was roundly abused by Huckbody, who offered him violence, and was only just restrained by fellow inmates from the hospital. Not that William thought himself in any danger. Miles Huckbody was too feeble, he said, to pose any threat or cause him any loss of sleep.'

'All the same,' I said, 'William Woodward had at least one known enemy who wished him harm.'

Edward Herepath shrugged. 'More than one I should imagine. He was not a man who endeared himself to people. Blunt, taciturn, and bearing a grudge against the world for the way he felt life had cheated him, is how I would sum up William Woodward. Yet I got on with him well enough, perhaps because I, too, had had my cross to bear.'

He spoke with quiet bitterness, and without stopping to recollect Cicely Ford's presence in the room. Only when she cried out, a sound suppressed almost as soon as it was uttered, did he remember and rise hurriedly to his feet, hands outstretched. 'My dear child! I did not mean… Forgive me! You know I would not willingly add to your grief.'

Cicely dropped her embroidery mad grasped both his hands in hers. 'No, no! There is nothing to forgive. I know how much you had to bear from Robert, how disorderly and disobedient he could be. I know, also, how much he had to be grateful to you for, how you looked after and watched over him all his life from the time he was two years old. No one could have had a kinder, more forbearing brother. He realized it, too, though he could never be prevailed upon to acknowledge it openly. But you and I, dear Edward, both know that under all that wildness, he was good and kind; that there was a real sweetness of nature which would have surfaced after his marriage to me. I could have tamed him. I know I could!' Edward Herepath returned the pressure of her hands, his eyes looking steadfastly into hers. 'Who could doubt it? Your gentleness and beauty are such that they must prevail with any man in time.'

He stooped and kissed one of the hands he was holding, before guiltily dropping both and turning away, an expression of defeated longing on his face. I felt desperately sorry for him, understanding all that he must be suffering, for Cicely Ford was weaving her own brand of magic about me, filling my mind with a strange yearning, conjuring up fantasies of things which could never be.

Edward Herepath resumed his seat beside the fire and glanced up at me. My legs were beginning to ache with inactivity, for he had not offered me a stool. 'Is there anything else you wish to ask?' he inquired.

I hesitated, sensing that his patience was wearing thin, but reluctant to take my leave before I had satisfied my curiosity still further. At last, I ventured, 'You were in Gloucester when the seeming murder of William Woodward occurred.'

'Indeed. I had gone to look over a horse with a view to purchase. An acquaintance of my friend Master Peter Avenel had told me of his intent to sell whilst staying in Bristol a few weeks earlier. The animal sounded exactly suited to my requirements, and I therefore made arrangements to travel north as soon as possible after Master Shottery's return to his native city. I rode to Gloucester on Lady Day and took lodgings for two nights at an inn. This gave me the morrow to look over the horse and make up my mind whether or not to buy, and a third day in which to return home at my leisure, which is exactly how things fell out.' A look of distress contorted his handsome features. 'As it happened, I could well have returned a day earlier, for the purchase was speedily concluded early on the Friday morning, but Master Shottery was unable to offer me hospitality, as his wife, he said, was feeling unwell. However, I decided to adhere to my original plan and remain in Gloucester until the following day.' Cicely said quietly from the window-seat behind him, ‘You must not blame yourself, dear Edward. Your earlier return would have prevented nothing. Little though any of us knew it at the time, the mischief, whatever it was, was already done.'

I asked abruptly: 'You were not anxious, Master Herepath, as to what might have happened in your absence, knowing that you had, at least according to Mistress Walker, inadvertently let slip to your brother that William Woodward was holding the money until you came home?' Edward Herepath's face flushed a dull red beneath its beard. I held my breath, waiting to be dismissed for my impudence, but instead provoking a small, if wintry, smile. 'You take your commission seriously, Master Chapman. Mistress Walker and her daughter appear to have chosen their champion wisely. Very well, yes, I admit to having felt a twinge of uneasiness every now and then. But my brother had been the cause of so much worry throughout his life that I had grown accustomed to such feelings, as one might grow used to the nagging pain of an old wound which, with time, one is able to ignore. Does that answer satisfy you? I trust so, for it's the only excuse I have.'

I gave a little bow. 'You have been more than gracious, Master Herepath, and I thank you for bearing so patiently with my questions. With your permission, I shall now take my leave.'

He rose to his feet once more, good humour restored at the prospect of my departure. And who could blame him? My probing must have awakened many painful memories which he was trying to forget.

'Both Mistress Ford and I hope that we have been of some service to you. Have you any idea, as yet, what could possibly have happened to William Woodward?'

I shook my head. 'I confess to being as much in the dark as ever, but I shall certainly seek out this Miles Huckbody and question him. Mistress Ford, your humble servant. And yours, sir. Thank you, and God be with you. If it is not too presumptuous, I shall keep you both in my prayers.'