The Midsummer Crown

TWELVE

I turned quickly and found myself looking into a pair of bright hazel eyes beneath thinning brown hair and set in a roundish face whose smile exuded warmth and friendliness. The owner of both eyes and smile was a stocky individual, well past the first flush of youth but giving the impression of being somewhat younger than he actually was because of an irrepressible smile that lurked around the corners of his thin lips and an incongruous dimple that appeared in one cheek whenever he grinned. He wore an apothecary’s apron splashed with various intriguing stains and was bareheaded, having just dashed out from his shop across the street as soon, so he informed me, as he had spotted me through his open doorway.

‘Julian!’ I exclaimed with pleasure. ‘Julian Makepeace!’

He nodded and repeated, ‘I thought you’d gone home to Bristol,’ adding, ‘weeks ago! Indeed,’ he went on in a slightly injured tone, ‘I’d swear that Clemency Godslove told me that you had.’

‘Mistress Godslove was quite right,’ I said. ‘I did go home. And was summoned back again.’

‘By the duke? Or the Lord Protector, as I suppose we should call him now? I know you stand on terms of friendship with him.’

I laughed. ‘I don’t think I’d put it quite like that. He commands and I obey. He’s kind, considerate, but implacable whenever he needs my services. People of his rank never really make friends with folk like me, you know, and it’s a great mistake to believe that they do. They give a good imitation of doing so, but that’s all it is. An imitation.’

Julian clapped me on the back. ‘You sound bitter, my friend, but I’m sure my lord of Gloucester regards you highly.’ He jerked his head towards his shop. ‘Come in and have a stoup of ale with me if you can spare the time. I don’t suggest we go into the Voyager. You know how things are in there these days.’

St Brendan the Voyager had once belonged to Julian’s elder brother, Reynold Makepeace, and a better run inn and sweeter ale could not have been found in the whole of London. But Reynold had been accidentally killed in a brawl between some Genoese sailors, since when the place had gone from bad to worse until nowadays it was little more than a drinking den for some of the roughest denizens in the area, and the ale was calculated to give you gut-rot.

I accepted Julian’s invitation with alacrity, the warmth of the day having given me a thirst, but this was not my only consideration. I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with Naomi, the cosy young armful who was so plainly more than just his housekeeper. The situation intrigued me, for the apothecary could not be called a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination while she would have graced the arm of any youth in the city. But Naomi was obviously devoted to her middle-aged lover, ignoring, or perhaps more likely unaware of, the affectionate cynicism with which he regarded her. I think Julian was always conscious of the fact that one morning in the future, probably when he needed her the most, he would wake up and find that Naomi had gone.

She was as buxom as ever, tossing her head coquettishly and peeping at me from beneath her long lashes in a blatant way that made me start to sweat and Julian to grin appreciatively at my discomfort. He patted her buttocks and told her to bring some ale and two beakers to the parlour behind the shop, after which, he said, she could go and prepare some water parsnip seeds for old Master Wilson’s medicine.

‘They’re very good taken in wine,’ he informed me, ‘for relieving the discomfort of a hernia. Also, according to Pliny, for getting rid of freckles on women and scales on horses, although I’ve never tried the latter.’

The little room behind the shop was cool and dim, lit by a faintly subaqueous light on account of some heavy green glass bottles lined up on a shelf against one wall. Julian waved me to a stool on one side of the table and seated himself opposite on the other. I made some desultory enquiries about the Godsloves which he answered in an equally half-hearted fashion, the pair of us just making small talk until Naomi had brought the ale and beakers and flounced out of the room again, obviously annoyed at being excluded from the conversation.

As soon as the parlour door had shut behind her, Julian paused in the act of pouring out the ale to demand, ‘What’s going on, Roger?’

Not quite certain of his meaning, I hedged. ‘What do you mean, what’s going on?’

He gave me a quizzical look as he handed me my beaker. ‘Do you really not know? Or are you sworn to secrecy? The city’s full of rumours that Duke Richard means to depose his nephew and take the crown for himself. I thought if anyone knows the truth, you might.’

I hedged some more. ‘How ever do these stories get about?’

He smiled. ‘From servants in the palaces and great houses who listen at doors, who pick up a word here and a word there from careless masters and mistresses who forget or overlook their presence, or, as often as not, treat them as a part of the furniture. There are whispers everywhere that the forthcoming coronation will be of King Richard III and not King Edward V. I can’t believe that you of all people haven’t heard the talk.’

‘I only arrived in London last Friday.’

Julian heard the defensive note in my voice and grinned sardonically. ‘You do know something. I thought you must as soon as you said you’d been brought back to London by the duke.’

‘It wasn’t for that reason. .’ I broke off, realizing that my denial had also been a tacit admission of the truth.

‘Not for that reason,’ Julian repeated. ‘So there is some substance in the rumours.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The people won’t like it, Roger. In fact they’ll deeply resent it. They’ll hate Gloucester for it. And on what grounds can he claim the crown? Not just because of the king’s youth, surely! We’ve had child sovereigns before, two of them not all that long ago. Not one of their uncles ever proposed removing either the second Richard or the late King Henry because of their age.’

I hesitated, wondering if I was at liberty to disclose the truth, anxious to come to Duke Richard’s defence. After a moment’s deliberation, I decided that Bishop Stillington’s disclosure was bound to be become public knowledge before long.

I said, ‘Those cases, and others before them, were different. They were true kings.’ Julian raised his eyebrows in startled enquiry, but made no comment, continuing to sip his ale. I went on, ‘You don’t have to say who told you this, but the Bishop of Bath and Wells has informed my lord Gloucester that twenty years or more ago, he betrothed the late king to the Lady Eleanor Butler in a solemn, but secret, ceremony that he regarded as binding as a marriage. That, of course, was before Edward wed Elizabeth Woodville in an equally clandestine fashion. The bishop therefore regards this second marriage as bigamous and the children of it as illegitimate.’

My companion looked at me open-mouthed, unable for a few seconds to say anything at all. Finally, he got out, ‘Dear sweet Virgin and all the angels!’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Do you believe this story?’

I drank some ale. ‘I can’t see any good reason not to,’ I said at last. ‘If you’re thinking that it’s a conspiracy between church and state, let me tell you that Robert Stillington has never sat in Duke Richard’s pocket, as the saying goes. I doubt if the duke could have identified him with any ease until these past few days. My lord has lived in the north as much as possible, coming south only rarely, while the bishop’s diocese is in the heart of my own west country. Indeed, I was born and brought up in Wells. No, it was the Duke of Clarence Stillington was so friendly with.’

‘Clarence?’ Julian lowered his beaker and waited for me to continue.

I nodded. ‘Their names were linked on more than one occasion. About seven years ago, I witnessed one of their meetings at Farleigh Castle near Bath. The duke was in residence there for a day or two, and the bishop had ridden over to see him. Nothing sinister in that you might think. A courtesy visit to acknowledge Clarence’s presence in the neighbourhood. But. .’

‘But?’ Julian prompted.

I shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to describe exactly, but there was something conspiratorial in their dealings with one another that struck me as decidedly odd. And then, at the time of Clarence’s execution two years later, Bishop Stillington was incarcerated in the Tower. Oh, he wasn’t imprisoned for long because he paid a hefty fine to the king for his release. But nevertheless, you could regard it as significant.’

Julian poured us both more ale.

‘You think that this Stillington had told Duke George the same story? You think that this was why the king suddenly decided to rid himself of Clarence?’

I was pleased with his ready understanding. ‘I feel sure it must have been. After all, Edward had put up with his brother’s fits and starts, his disloyalty, his treachery and disobedience for years. He’d forgiven him time and time again in spite, I’ve no doubt, of the queen and her family all clamouring for the duke to be got rid of. But then, I think, George suddenly — and very stupidly, he was a very stupid man — threatened the king with what he knew. Threatened to make it public.’

‘So the king had him executed.’ Julian nodded slowly. ‘It’s a good theory, Roger, and I feel you may well be right. But surely such a claim should be referred to Rome so that a papal court could give its verdict. It shouldn’t just be acted upon as if it were the inviolable truth. Is a betrothal as sacred in the eyes of the Church as a marriage?’

‘I don’t know. I’m no theologian. Stillington seems to think so.’

There was silence for a moment or two. From the shop, we could hear Naomi’s voice upraised in a popular ballad of the day, singing decidedly off-key.

The apothecary grinned apologetically. ‘She’s no ear for music, I’m afraid.’

‘Neither have I,’ I assured him. ‘I couldn’t hold a tune to save my life.’

We listened painfully to another refrain before Julian asked, ‘Do you think, then, that the Lord Protector will claim the crown on the basis of young Edward’s bastardy? And, of course, that of his brother and sisters? But why doesn’t he wait and do it legally through the papal courts?’

I drank some more ale and gazed steadily at him across the rim of my beaker. ‘Can’t you work it out?’

After a second or two, he laughed softly. ‘The courts might find in favour of the king?’

‘I think it more than possible. No one wants to dispossess a child. And no doubt for a substantial bribe, the pope would be willing to declare the original vows between King Edward and the lady Eleanor Butler null and void.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Julian sucked his teeth thoughtfully. ‘Is it your opinion,’ he asked, ‘that the duke has been planning this. . this coup for a long time?’

I was annoyed by the question. ‘Sweet Jesus, no! King Edward was ailing, it’s true, but I don’t think anyone expected him to die. It came as a terrible shock to everyone, including Duke Richard. No, no! I feel certain, knowing him as I do, that such a thought had never crossed his mind.’

I was lying, of course. I knew, no one better, that it was not the bastardy of his nephew, but of his eldest brother that had been preoccupying the duke. But that was another story, and not one I was prepared to discuss with Julian Makepeace. Or with anyone else for that matter.

I got to my feet, a little unsteadily it must be admitted. The apothecary’s ale was potent stuff and I had drunk three beakers of it.

‘I mustn’t trespass on your hospitality any longer,’ I said. ‘You must have work to do.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ he protested. ‘Sit down again. You haven’t told me yet why you were recalled to London.’

‘Neither have I.’ I resumed my seat but refused his offer of more ale.

He gave an understanding smile. ‘So?’ he urged. ‘Why have you returned?’

I knew very well that I wasn’t supposed to discuss the disappearance of Gideon Fitzalan and the murder of Gregory Machin with anyone not already in the know, but I badly needed to talk the matter over with someone not personally involved, and I trusted Julian Makepeace. He was a good man and, moreover, had an intelligent mind that might be able to offer a solution which I had overlooked.

But when I had finished relating the events at Baynard’s Castle, his only comment, accompanied by a mystified shake of his head, was, ‘A strange business. A very strange business! I don’t envy you, my friend. A murder in a locked room, that smacks of witchcraft. Are you completely satisfied that this Gregory Machin’s room was indeed locked, or that there was no possible second way for the murderer to have entered?’

I smiled wearily. ‘Completely satisfied on both counts.’ I couldn’t help adding, with a touch of bitterness, ‘What an incompetent fool you must judge me to be.’

He stretched out a hand across the table. ‘Forgive me! I spoke without thinking. Of course I don’t judge you to be either incompetent or a fool. But what, then, is the answer? Apart from supernatural means? And I gather — from your manner rather than anything you’ve said — that you don’t favour that solution. Am I correct?’

I nodded. ‘But don’t ask me why because I couldn’t tell you.’ I could, of course, but I didn’t want to bring my personal relationship with God into the discussion. I felt it might be misunderstood by outsiders. ‘I just have this. . this hunch that I’m dealing with human wickedness and not with demons and devils.’

Julian looked unconvinced, but didn’t try to persuade me otherwise. He merely shrugged and murmured, ‘It’s a puzzle.’

I sighed and got to my feet. ‘But one I have to try to solve,’ I said glumly. ‘And I shan’t do that by sitting here and drinking your excellent ale.’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m glad to have fallen in with you again, Julian. Since Philip Lamprey left London after his wife died, I’ve had no real friend in the city. It’s reassuring to think that I may have found one in you.’

The apothecary clasped my hand warmly in both of his. ‘You have indeed found one,’ he affirmed. ‘Your warm regard for my poor brother would always be a recommendation to me, even if I didn’t like you for yourself. But I do. Like you, I mean. Whenever you are forced to come to London, think of my home as your own. If you ever need a bed for the night, there is an attic — extremely small, it’s true, but you wouldn’t mind that I feel certain — where a makeshift cot can be made up for you. Or if you simply need to come and talk, you are welcome to do that also. If I’m busy with customers, you won’t, I’m sure, object to waiting until I’ve finished.’

I returned my heartfelt thanks for this generous invitation, took a last swig of ale in order to empty my beaker, and went out into the afternoon sunshine.

On leaving the shop, I turned to my right, heading towards Wallbrook, and was just passing the ramshackle tenement on the corner, known as the Old Barge, when I heard the patter of feet behind me, and my name being called. I turned to see Mistress Naomi running after me, her cheeks pink with exertion and strands of hair escaping from beneath her cap. She came to a breathless standstill in front of me.

‘Master says will you please come back,’ she gasped. ‘He’s remembered something.’

‘Remembered something?’ I repeated stupidly.

She nodded vigorously. ‘He says it’s important, and. . and that he’s vexed with himself for not thinking of it just now.’ She took another deep breath, flaunting two well-rounded breasts and giving me a sly, sidelong glance as she did so. I tried valiantly to keep my eyes fixed on her face, but failed. And it was then that I noticed the little sprig of birch leaves pinned to her gown, just above her heart.

As I began walking back with her, retracing my steps to Julian’s shop, I commented on it and asked if it had any particular significance.

She smiled proudly. ‘It means that next Monday, Midsummer Eve, I’m to be crowned Midsummer Queen of the Dowgate Ward. Every ward has its own queen, you know, and this year Dowgate’s chosen me. It’s a great honour, so the master says.’ She grimaced. ‘Well, I knew that without him telling me.’ She gave a little giggle. ‘He thinks I’m stupid, you know.’

I considered that she might be right about Julian’s assessment of her, and thought to myself that the apothecary was probably mistaken. Mistress Naomi appeared on the surface to be nothing much more than a cuddly, silly young girl, but I got the impression that there was an altogether shrewder, sharper side to her nature than was immediately apparent.

Julian was waiting for us at the shop door, obviously in a state of suppressed excitement. He grasped my arm and fairly pulled me inside, saying, ‘I’m sorry to bring you back, Roger, but it’s too important to leave for another time. What an idiot I am! Why on earth didn’t I remember it sooner?’

‘What? What is it you’ve remembered?’ I asked urgently as he led me once again towards the parlour.

We were interrupted by a customer who pointedly waited to be served until Naomi and I had closed the door into the shop. My companion giggled.

‘Poor man! He comes in every week for a supply of powdered mandrake root. It’s for. . well. . you know.’ She broke off, blushing a little.

I nodded. Mandrake root was thought to be beneficial in cases of impotence, although in this case, if the gentleman came in every week, it didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. While we waited for Julian, and to curb my own impatience, I quizzed her some more about the Midsummer’s Eve festival.

She was nothing loath to talk about it. It appeared that each London ward crowned its own Midsummer Queen with a wreath of young birch leaves, and the selected maiden was then carried, shoulder-high, in a chair also decked with branches of birch, around her domain-for-a-night to accept the greetings and adulation of her ‘subjects’. Her path was strewn with the herbs that people had been out in the surrounding fields to gather, usually before dawn: St John’s wort, mugwort, plantain, corn marigold, elder, yarrow, vervain and any other herb that was thought to ward off the possible evil of ‘Witches’ Night’ as Midsummer Eve was also known.

‘And after that,’ she went on, her eyes glowing with anticipation, ‘everyone goes to St Paul’s churchyard to see the mustering of the great Marching Watch. Do you have a Marching Watch in Bristol, Master Chapman?’

I denied any knowledge of such an event and learned that in London all the main guilds, preceded by the twelve great livery companies, processed down Lud Gate Hill and along Cheapside, accompanied by musicians on trumpet, pipe and drum, everywhere illumined by torches and cressets and fire baskets, and the houses decorated with garlands of flowers and tapestries hung from balconies and windows.

‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ my informant breathed ecstatically. ‘And all the Midsummer Queens are given pride of place to watch the procession and to walk alongside it in front of the crowds.’

At that moment, the door into the shop opened and Julian rejoined us, raising exasperated eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry, Roger. I couldn’t get away sooner. That man regards me as his father confessor and unburdens himself of all his troubles.’

I grinned. ‘And I gather from Mistress Naomi here that he has one in particular. Not,’ I added hastily, ‘that it’s anything to make fun of. It could afflict us all one day. In any case, don’t worry. I’ve been very well entertained. I’ve been hearing about Midsummer’s Eve and the Marching Watch. It sounds to be an event worth the seeing. Moreover, you’ll have the privilege of accompanying a queen this year.’

Somewhat to my surprise, Julian pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Naomi will certainly try to persuade me,’ he said, ‘but Midsummer Eve festivities are something I normally avoid. I don’t like the idea of celebrating what was originally, and in some respects still is, a pagan rite. Centuries ago, it was a time of bloodshed and sacrifice, with great fires lit on hilltops to appease the gods.’

I saw that Mistress Naomi was looking surly. She plainly had no patience with such antiquated notions and was about to fly into one of her tantrums, so I asked quickly (and also because I was impatient to know), ‘What is it you have to tell me, Master Makepeace?’

He motioned me to sit down again at the table, saying, ‘For pity’s sake, call me by my given name. We’ve agreed we’re friends.’ He pulled up the other stool, suddenly all eagerness, his previous excitement returning in full force. And for once, he didn’t bother to send Naomi away. It was almost, for the moment, as if he had forgotten she was there.

‘Listen, Roger!’ He clasped his hands together on the tabletop, the knuckles of his thin fingers showing white against the polished wood. ‘You know the Old Barge at the end of the street?’ I nodded. ‘You know what it’s like. It was once a gentleman’s house, but now it’s let out by the room to all the scaff and raff of London. The shrieks and screams that issue from that place at night are enough to make your blood run cold.’

‘Yes, yes!’ I said, wondering when he would get to the point.

‘Well, one day last winter, I was walking past the place on my way home, when a fellow staggered down the steps and bumped straight into me, nearly knocking me over. He apologized in a very slurred sort of way, so I naturally assumed he was drunk. Then, to my disgust, he took hold of my arm and staggered along beside me. Said he wasn’t feeling too well which, in view of my assumption, didn’t surprise me in the least. But I supported him as far as the shop, where, of course, I disengaged myself and said that I must go inside. This was where I lived.’

‘And?’ I queried impatiently as Julian paused.

‘And then,’ he answered slowly, impressively, ‘he gave a strange little sigh and dropped down dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes. But not from any natural cause. He’d been stabbed in the back, just like this Gregory Machin you’ve been telling me about.’

I stared at him uncomprehendingly for a second or two. ‘You’re saying. .?’

‘I’m saying that this man had been fatally stabbed by another of the Old Barge’s inmates — a man was later hanged for his murder — but between the blow that killed him and the moment he dropped dead, he had walked the length of Bucklersbury, unaware that there was anything wrong with him. True, he wasn’t quite himself; his speech, as I said, was slurred, he was weak and disorientated, but he didn’t realize that he was dying.’

‘Is such a thing possible?’ I asked.

Julian nodded eagerly. ‘Apparently it’s not as uncommon a phenomenon as you might suppose. I consulted a physician friend of mine who lives in Old Jewry, and he assured me that it can occur from time to time. It had happened to a man he knew of who complained that someone had thumped him. A minute or two later, the man fell dead of a stab wound in the chest. It depends, I should imagine, on the weapon. If the blade is long and thin, there is no immediate bloodletting. What bleeding there is, is internal and takes longer to bring about death.’ He leaned forward excitedly, gripping both my wrists. ‘Don’t you see what I’m saying? Your man could have been knifed without his realizing it. He may then have been able to walk into his room and bolt the door before he collapsed and died.’

I took a deep breath. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘I saw it happen with my own eyes.’

‘Then. . then that explains it.’ I went on slowly, picking a careful path through my teeming thoughts. ‘Tutor Machin’s room wasn’t far from the head of the stairs he and young Gideon Fitzalan were last seen climbing. The staircase curves, so the two of them were out of sight of the person following behind them for perhaps a minute or so. Long enough, probably, for someone waiting at the top to stab Gregory in the back as he passed and seize the boy. Whoever it was must have been amazed to see Gregory blunder on into his room instead of immediately falling dead at his feet. And even more amazed if he heard the bolt being shot home. He may even have been terrified that the tutor wasn’t dead, only wounded, and would be able to identify him later.’

Julian frowned. ‘You assume the murderer was a man?’

‘Don’t you? Knives and daggers are not normally a woman’s weapons. Although I have to admit that I have known them to be so, so maybe it’s not the most convincing of arguments.’ I got to my feet, freeing myself from the apothecary’s clutching hands and stretched out one of my own. ‘Julian, I owe you a debt I can never repay. Even if I can’t prove that this is exactly what happened, we both know you’re right. If you eliminate the forces of evil, this has to be the only explanation.’

‘I hope so,’ Julian agreed, warmly returning my clasp. ‘I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it at once.’ He smiled. ‘I’m delighted to have been of some use. Let me wish you all good fortune in solving this mystery, Roger. If any one can do so, you’re the man. Look at how you resolved the one surrounding the Godsloves.’

I made a deprecating gesture (which I don’t suppose fooled him for an instant) and politely refused his offer of further refreshment. I wanted to be on my own. In the light of this new knowledge, I needed to reassess everything I knew about this case so far.