The Lammas Feast

Eleven

The door was open, so I entered without knocking. Timothy Plummer and Richard Manifold were standing on one side of Cicely Ford’s bed, the physician on the other. Jack Gload and Peter Littleman were watching from just inside the doorway, shuffling their feet among the straw, their small, dark faces expressionless; although that was a normal state of affairs with them. Cicely herself and Marion Baldock, looking belligerent, flanked the doctor, evidently having appointed themselves his bodyguard and champions. But it was the supine figure on the bed that attracted and held my attention, its unnatural stillness immediately proclaiming the truth of Timothy Plummer’s words.

The stranger was undoubtedly dead.

The doctor was justifiably angry, both at losing his patient and at being accused of incompetence.

‘The man was on the road to recovery,’ he flung back at Timothy. ‘I told you what I saw. He opened his eyes a second time just half an hour or so ago. But it’s not my fault, sir, if God and nature decided to intervene! I cannot possibly be blamed for that, and I’ll thank you to keep your libellous innuendoes and your snide inferences to yourself! I’ve worn myself to the bone trying to keep this poor fellow alive. I’ve forgone a proper night’s sleep and a decent meal just to stay at his side. And all I get by way of thanks is unwarranted abuse! Well, I’m off! I’ll not remain any longer to be insulted!’

He grabbed his bag of instruments from a stool at the foot of the bed and stumped from the cottage, even forgetting, in his annoyance, to take his leave of Cicely and Marion Baldock. As he passed me, he snarled, ‘You got me into this, Chapman. If you ever find someone else who’s taken a beating, don’t bother to call me!’

Suddenly made aware of my unwelcome presence, Richard Manifold’s already unhappy face grew even longer. Timothy, by contrast, seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He beckoned me forward.

‘Come and look at our Breton, Roger. What do you think?’

I bent and peered closely at the stranger. He looked peaceful enough and was not long dead, being still warm to the touch. His face bore the cuts and bruises of the previous evening’s assault, but there was something more; a bluish tinge around the mouth and a pinched look about the nostrils, which, together with the congested appearance of the features in general, aroused my suspicions.

‘I would guess he’s been suffocated,’ I said, ‘probably with the pillow. Look how it’s lying askew, as though it’s been pushed back under his head in a hurry.’

Timothy nodded agreement, but Richard Manifold protested angrily and with a hint of panic in his tone.

‘He can’t have been murdered. My men had strict instructions not to leave his bedside.’ He turned threateningly on his two lieutenants. ‘Was this man left alone at any time, without one or the other of you being here, in the room?’

I think it was what, in legal terms, is known as a leading question. Jack Gload and Peter Littleman may have been slow on the uptake, but they weren’t completely stupid. They could sense trouble in the same way that animals can sense a rising storm. Of course, they vehemently denied the charge. At no time had they left the stranger unattended: one or the other of them had always been in the cottage with him. They could have appealed to the two women to support their claim, but they didn’t. I wondered why not. Perhaps it just did not occur to them.

Timothy, however, thought of it. ‘Mistress Ford, Sister Jerome, is this true? Think back carefully over the hour or half-hour before Sergeant Manifold and I arrived this morning.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ Marion Baldock answered. I only arrived myself some ten minutes before you did. I was here throughout the night, but I returned to the nunnery at about seven o’clock for Prime, after which I had my chores to do, followed by a period of prayer and meditation alone in my cell.’

‘Who was in the cottage when you came back?’ I asked.

She frowned. ‘Let me see. . Yes, Cicely was here, fast asleep in the armchair, and that fellow’ — she indicated Peter Littleman — ‘was seated on a stool, his back propped against the wall, facing the foot of the bed. His companion came in a few moments later.’

‘Call of nature,’ Jack Gload explained coyly, obviously not wishing to offend sensitive female ears with his customary forthright language.

‘You’re sure of all this, Sister?’ Timothy demanded bluntly.

Before she could reply, Cicely confirmed, ‘Sister Jerome and the two sheriff’s officers were present when I woke up a few minutes later.’

‘You haven’t mentioned the doctor,’ I pointed out.

‘Oh, he’d come outside with — uh — me,’ Jack Gload admitted. ‘Same reason.’

‘Contest, was it?’ grunted Timothy. ‘Who could piss the highest?’ He was never one to consider female susceptibilities. He motioned with his head for Richard and me to follow him out of the cottage. ‘Well,’ he continued, when we had moved beyond earshot of those still inside, ‘it’s checkmate. I feel pretty certain our man was murdered, but I don’t see how unless someone is lying. According to the doctor, the Breton was on the road to recovery and had opened his eyes for a second time not long before you and I arrived, Sergeant. Unfortunately, I can’t stay to investigate the matter. I must return to London as soon as possible and report to the King.’ His voice was full of suppressed rage, but he knew that the initial mistake had been made by his own men in half-killing the stranger, instead of just arresting and securing him. He must realize, too, that it was only their violence that had made me go to the Breton’s assistance, so forbore to reproach me, as I had been half-expecting him to do. Timothy Plummer had always been just.

‘I suppose, now, you have no means of telling whether or not he was the Tudor spy you were warned about?’ I asked.

Timothy shook his head. ‘No. And there was nothing in his satchel or in any of his pockets to indicate so much as his name, let alone his business here. Just his knife for shaving, a change of clothes and a second, stronger-bladed knife for protection, such as any traveller might carry.’

‘What about the people he called on?’ I queried. ‘Jasper Fairbrother’s dead, of course, but there’s Robin Avenel and the man’s contact, whoever he may be, at Westbury College. Can nothing be got from them?’

‘Without confirmation that this man is the spy we’re looking for, what proof have we got that they’ve done anything wrong?’ Timothy gritted his teeth. ‘The whole affair has been botched from start to finish. But at least it’s alerted us to a couple of possible traitors in our midst.’ He glared at the hapless Richard Manifold. ‘I trust, Sergeant, that in the future you’ll be keeping a close eye on both this Robin Avenel and the inhabitants of Westbury College!’

Richard muttered something under his breath about bringing them in for questioning and, in his turn, glared at me. I knew who he blamed for all his present woes.

‘Well,’ Timothy sighed, ‘I shall make my report to the sheriff and then I must set out for London without more delay. And I shall be taking that pair of bumbling idiots with me, you’ll be happy to hear.’

We were in no doubt as to which bumbling idiots he meant, and Richard looked relieved at the prospect of being shot of them.

‘If only the sheriff had been apprised earlier of the spy’s probable arrival in Bristol,’ he said, trying to reapportion some of the blame, ‘instead of learning of it from your two bravos, we might have stood a better chance of arresting him before he quit the city.’

So that was how Richard and his superiors had found out; and it had been my remarks about a stranger from a Breton ship visiting Jasper Fairbrother that had alerted them to the fact that the man might already have evaded their clutches. As Timothy had remarked, a botched job from beginning to end, born of the secrecy and reluctance to communicate that was, in my experience, typical of those in authority.

Richard’s last words had given my conscience a nudge, and I felt it my duty to put in a final word in defence of the dead man.

‘Let me remind you once again, Sergeant, that I can produce witnesses to prove that our unknown in there — I jerked my head towards Cicely’s cottage — left Bristol on Monday evening and did not return. He is therefore not the person you are seeking in connection with Master Fairbrother’s murder.’

Richard grunted morosely, and I could tell that his interest in the case was cooling now that he could no longer blame the stranger. And his anxiety to prove the Breton’s guilt had really had nothing to do with finding the baker’s killer, so I couldn’t see him pursuing the enquiry with any great enthusiasm. There were too many suspects. I guessed that he and the sheriff would eventually agree to let the matter drop, just another of the many unsolved crimes that plagued all big towns and cities.

Timothy said abruptly, ‘I must be off if I want to be at least halfway to London by nightfall. I have to collect my two heroes from the castle and then hire horses for them — at my own expense,’ he added furiously. ‘If those parsimonious bastards in London had thought to mount them before they set out, you’d have received the news of our gentleman’s arrival much earlier. My Lord of Gloucester wouldn’t have been so penny-pinching.’ He added reluctantly, ‘But I suppose the King has many calls on his purse. I know he dislikes squandering money, and keeps a tight curb on his household expenses. Fair enough, but the trick is to know when to slacken the reins.’ With which embittered speech, he bade Richard and me a curt goodbye and strode away down Saint Michael’s Hill.

Richard turned to me. ‘That’s it then, Chapman. You can be off about your business and leave me to mine. There’s nothing here now for you to do.’

I wasn’t so sure about that. I should have liked a few more words with Jack Gload and Peter Littleman, not to mention Cicely Ford and Marion Baldock. I also wanted another look at the corpse, but I knew there was no chance of me poking and prying about with Richard watching. Besides, it was well past my dinnertime and I was hungry.

I went home to be met by a strong smell of burning, a mad frenzy of affection from the dog, indifference from Nicholas and Elizabeth and a slightly sour smile from my overwrought and put-upon wife. Adam, praise the Lord, was asleep.

‘Roger,’ Adela said firmly, without even pausing to acknowledge my greeting, ‘if we are to keep Hercules as a part of the family circle — and you know my views on that — you will have to assume responsibility for him. I cannot manage a baby, two small children and a dog while shopping.’ She turned to face me, obviously bracing herself for a confession. ‘I lost Adam while we were in the market this morning. I let go of the handle of his cart for a few seconds while I paid for some meat, and when I looked round, he had vanished. Neither of the children had noticed anything, because they were too busy playing with Hercules. Luckily,’ she hurried on, before I could say anything, ‘Jenny Hodge was buying fish at the next stall and had seen what had happened. She shouted to me that Jane Overbecks had taken him and which way she had gone. Jenny stayed with Nick and Bess while I ran after Jane. The crowds were so thick, she hadn’t got far. To be fair to her, I don’t think she realized what a fright she’d given me or that she was doing anything wrong. But I repeat, I cannot manage a dog as well as the children.’

She looked as though she were about to burst into tears, which she did as soon as I walked over and folded her in my arms.

‘I’m so sorry, Roger! So sorry,’ she mumbled wetly against my shoulder.

‘Sweetheart,’ I protested, ‘I’m the one who should be sorry for being so thoughtless. In future, Hercules will come with me.’ I forced up her chin and tasted her salt tears as I kissed her eyes and lips, steadfastly ignoring the embarrassed giggling behind me. Now, of course, was the time to admit my lapse with Cicely Ford, but somehow it didn’t seem quite the appropriate moment. So I said nothing and held her tightly until she was calm again. ‘I love you,’ I whispered.

She gave me a squeeze, dried her eyes on her apron and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I did go to the bakery afterwards and tell Master Overbecks what had happened. He blamed Jenny Hodge, who he said was supposed to be keeping an eye on Jane. But he apologized profusely and then asked me if I knew what had happened to the Breton who was set upon last night, and was it true that he was one of Henry Tudor’s spies. Apparently everyone in Bristol knows the story. Heaven knows how these things get about so fast. And, of course, he mentioned Walter. That’s common knowledge, too, by now.’

She dished up the remains of yesterday’s stew, which, because I was late, had stuck to the bottom of the saucepan. The fresh meat she had bought was, presumably, for our supper, which meant that there was only a little of it and it would need some eking out. The children grumbled, as they always did, about having the same food two days running, especially as it now had a slightly sour, as well as a burnt, taste, as though it had gone off in the heat. I sent them both a stern, warning look, which they returned with interest. I gave up. Other fathers inspired terror in their young. Why couldn’t I?

Talking with my mouth full, I told Adela of the morning’s events, but I waited until the meal was finished, and until Nicholas and Elizabeth had gone out to play, before I made free with my and Timothy Plummer’s opinion that the spy had been murdered. I saw consternation flare in her beautiful brown eyes. One definite and two possible murders in as many days frightened her. She got up and looked outside the cottage door to reassure herself that the children were safe. I heard her tell them not to stray very far.

‘There’s no need to worry like that, sweetheart,’ I said when she had resumed her seat at the table. ‘I’m not even sure that Walter Godsmark’s death wasn’t an accident. But if it was murder, then it would be too much of a coincidence if it weren’t somehow linked with Jasper’s. But at present, there’s no way of proving the spy was murdered, let alone Walter, not unless it can definitely be shown that someone is lying.’

‘You don’t seem to think Richard will pursue the investigation into Jasper Fairbrother’s killing?’ Adela folded her arms on the table and tilted her head to one side.

‘I very much doubt it. The incentive has gone and he’s left with too many suspects. As for the man who may or may not be a Tudor agent, Richard and the sheriff will want to forget that unfortunate episode as quickly as possible. If they can persuade the doctor to say the death was from natural causes, the man will be hustled into a pauper’s grave at civic expense, and that will be the end of that.’

‘Maybe for them,’ Adela observed astutely. ‘But not for you, not if I know anything about it.’

I assumed an innocent expression, but my wife wasn’t fooled for an instant. To avoid further questioning on the subject, I rose and began shouldering my pack, trying to look like a man who was eager to earn some money. Adela laughed.

‘By the way,’ she said as she kissed me goodbye, ‘I almost forgot. John Overbecks was very desirous to talk to you in person, so I promised I’d ask you to call on him. If you go right away, he will have finished his dinner, but not yet be so busy with his afternoon customers that he’ll have to ask you to call back again.’

‘Surely he’s said all he has to say to you. Why does he want to see me?’

Adela shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. But he did seem very anxious to do so.’

I sighed. ‘In that case, I’ll go now, as you suggest.’

‘And take the dog with you!’ She was intent on imposing the new regime immediately.

I hunted out a piece of rope and tied it around Hercules’s neck, making sure that it was neither tight enough to choke him nor loose enough for him to slip his head through and run amok. Then I set out for High Street.

‘Come in! Come in!’

John Overbecks was in the bakery behind the shop, but as soon as I appeared, he was ready to usher me through the door that led to the stairs, instructing Dick Hodge to deal with any customers who might present themselves. First, however, Hercules’s presence had to be explained and exclaimed over, then the apprentice further burdened with the task of looking after him and giving him a drink.

‘Luckily,’ my host informed me, ‘our own dog is with Jane in her bedchamber. They both like a sleep after dinner. Which is just as well. The pup doesn’t care for other animals invading his territory. Now, shall we go up?’

Once we had mounted to the living quarters, I was shown into a pleasant chamber that overlooked High Street, the casement being firmly closed against the stench, noise and heat. A stout oaken table stood in the centre of the room, the walls were hung with woollen tapestries depicting various biblical scenes, and, facing the — at present — empty fireplace, was a high-backed wooden settle that would provide substantial protection against winter draughts. A couple of beautifully carved armchairs, each with its own footstool, a corner cupboard with the usual display of pewter and silver gleaming in its depths, three or four stools ranged around the table and a scattering of cushions covered in rich brown velvet completed a picture of comfort and prosperity that formed a sharp contrast to what I had just left at home. I was intrigued, however, to note the complete absence of any feminine influence — no flowers, no bright colours, no embroidery frame flung carelesly down — and could well imagine that the room had not changed much, if at all, since the days of John Overbecks’s bachelorhood.

The baker relieved me of my pack and motioned me to take a stool and sit opposite him at the table.

‘It’s good of you to spare me the time, Roger,’ he said. ‘First of all, let me apologize again for what happened this morning. I am particularly upset as this is now the second time that such an incident has occurred. Young Adam seems to hold a particular fascination for Jane. I can only try to reassure you that she will do him no harm. She would probably have brought him straight back here.’

I mumbled the customary platitudes that politeness imposes on us all, and which satisfied my companion far more than they did me.

‘That’s all right then,’ he said, beaming affably. ‘Now, tell me, if you will, what’s been going on with this Breton spy. The whole town’s buzzing with rumours, but no one seems to know anything for certain. I hear you were in the thick of the action, though that doesn’t altogether surprise me. You’re a friend of one of the King’s officers, or so I was told. The chief man, too, by all accounts. You were drinking with him in the castle guardroom this morning.’ I laughed wryly and he joined in, guessing what I was thinking: that nothing was ever a secret for long in this city. He went on, ‘Is the Breton Jasper’s killer? I should like to know. I feel a strange sort of responsibility, as Jasper was my tenant.’

I told him all that I knew, even of my suspicion that the Breton himself had been the victim of foul play. He tut-tutted and was plainly intrigued, but he also appeared to be genuinely distressed.

‘Three deaths in three days,’ I concluded. ‘There must be some connection.’

‘Why do you say that?’ he asked sharply.

‘Because the three men themselves were connected. Doesn’t that fact seem suspicious to you?’

John Overbecks considered the proposition for a moment or two, before shaking his head. ‘Not necessarily. Young Godsmark’s death I would most certainly regard as an accident. He was drunk and fell into the Frome. In fact, I can myself testify to the fact that he was very much the worse for drink on Tuesday evening, when he left the Green Lattis. He could barely stand upright, let alone walk in a straight line. He was far from sober, even when I first arrived. I had to share a table with him, because the place was so full, so I know what I’m talking about.’

‘What hour would that have been?’

‘When Walter left, do you mean?’ I nodded and the baker shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It must have been late because it was beginning to get quite dark, and you know how long it remains light at this time of year.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘is what he was doing down by the river. If he was going straight home from the Lattis, he would have walked up Wine Street, then cut through either Dolphin Lane or Chequer Lane to Saint Peter’s Church. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near the Frome.’

‘Who’s to say he was going straight home?’ John Overbecks laughed. ‘He was a young man, and a handsome one at that. There must have been girls who fancied him, even though you and I might have considered him an unlettered oaf. It’s where we think he kept his brains that would have attracted the women.’

‘A romantic tryst by the river, is that what you’re suggesting? It was after curfew.’

‘Pooh!’ The baker was rightly dismissive of my objection. ‘It’s easy enough to walk along stretches of the town side of the Frome at any time of the day or night. You can stroll along the quay from the Frome Bridge to the conjunction with the Avon and still remain within the city boundaries. But if you want to go further upstream, there are ways of getting there, even when the New Gate and the Pithay Gate are closed. There’s been a gap in the wall alongside the Needless Gate as long as I can remember. The City Fathers have never done anything about it, although succeeding generations have known of it since I was a boy. Even a man as stout as I am can squeeze through it if he takes a deep breath; and you come out the other side on to Needless Bridge, very close to the parapet, I agree, but it’s not really dangerous if you’re careful. Then across the Broad Meads, past the Dominican friary and you’re on the river bank.’

‘Which is where I was yesterday evening,’ I agreed, ‘opposite the weir and the castle mill. And which is where I found Walter’s body.’

‘There you are, then.’ John Overbecks spread his hands, palms upward. ‘He was there the night before. And for what better reason than to meet a sweetheart?’

I was still not convinced about the girl. ‘Would he have allowed himself to get blind drunk if he’d been going to meet a woman?’

The baker settled his arms more comfortably on the tabletop and leaned towards me.

‘Walter Godsmark was one of those men who become inebriated very quickly. A couple of stoups of ale and he was drunk enough not to be able to control his drinking. The only way he could keep command of himself was not to touch a single drop.’

I nibbled at a loose sliver of skin by my right thumbnail. ‘I’ve never heard Walter’s name coupled with any girl in the town,’ I cavilled.

The baker was growing exasperated. ‘I don’t suppose we know everything about all of our neighbours, all of the time,’ he growled. ‘What is it, Roger? You want to believe that Walter Godsmark was murdered, do you? That somebody pushed him in? That somehow his death is connected with Jasper’s murder? Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor, lad? Assumptions about anything should be as few as possible.’

I grinned at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got one of those enquiring minds. I just can’t stop asking questions.’

For a moment, John Overbecks’s irritation was palpable, then he relaxed and returned my grin.

‘It’s as well that we’re not all alike,’ he admitted, ‘or I suppose knotty problems would never get solved.’ He stood up and extended his hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Roger. I won’t detain you any longer. I know you have a family to support. And now a dog, too. By the way, tell Mistress Chapman that I haven’t forgotten her order for Lammastide. The loaves will be made in good time, never fear. Now, I must go and see that Jane is all right. Forgive me if I don’t come down with you.’

‘Of course.’ We clasped hands and, picking up my pack, I made my way out on to the landing. I was halfway down the flight of stairs, when a call from John Overbecks made me pause. I glanced up to see him hanging over the banister rail, his large, square face wearing a thoughtful expression.

‘Would you spare me a few more minutes, Roger? There’s something I’ve been considering for some little time now, and suddenly, at last, I’ve made up my mind.’