The Midsummer Rose

Two

I raised my eyelids just far enough to see the motes of dust dancing in the sunlight streaming through the open window. The heat lay as heavy as a fur across my knees. I was dry, warm and floating on a cloud somewhere between sleeping and waking. I suspected I must have died and gone straight to heaven …

But as my other senses began to revive, I realized that heaven could never smell like the Bristol streets on a hot summer’s day. (And if it did, I didn’t want to go there.) Nor would angels, playing their celestial harps, sound like street traders raucously vying with one another for customers. I therefore had to be at home in Small Street, in my own bedchamber, in my own bed.

Why I should find this idea so strange gradually became clear to me as unwelcome memories started to return, waving at me like discoloured rags from the corners of my mind. The house at Rownham Passage … The storm … The blow to my head … The sickness and nausea … The murder of the Irishman, whose name I could no longer remember … Above all, the two women, one in brown sarcenet, the other in blue brocade, who had tried to drown me in the river …

Something landed on my chest with all the force of a cartload of turnips hitting a brick wall. I yelled, afraid I was being attacked again. Then my face was licked by a wet, enthusiastic tongue, and breath that could knock a grown man senseless at a dozen paces assaulted the back of my nose, making me sneeze.

My dog, Hercules.

I was definitely at home and I wasn’t dreaming. But how I had survived my watery grave and how I had got here were questions that I was unable either to answer or to cope with just at present. I lifted an arm that felt like lead and stroked Hercules’s scruffy little head.

‘Hello, lad. All right! All right! I’m as pleased to see you as you are to see me. But just shift a bit, will you? You smell as though you’ve been eating fly-infested meat.’ (Which he probably had, from the drain in the middle of the street. Gnawing at putrefying carcasses was one of his less endearing habits, but also one of the greatest pleasures of his doggy existence.)

Hercules was not to be deterred, however, and at the sound of my voice grew even more excited, farting loudly to demonstrate his happiness at seeing me again.

The bedchamber door burst open and Adela came in, flour streaking her forehead, hands still partially caked with dough. She had obviously been in the middle of baking, and wiped them in a hurry. Her beautiful brown eyes, overflowing with anxiety, fixed themselves on me.

‘Roger?’ she asked in a whisper of painful intensity. ‘Was that you calling out? Are you properly awake at last?’

I grinned weakly at her. ‘You’re not looking at a ghost.’

She threw herself on her knees beside the bed, pushing an indignant Hercules to the floor and embracing me in an all-enveloping hug. Her tears trickled down my face, mingling with my own. I managed, after a great deal of effort, to get both arms around her. This time it was like moving two dead weights.

How long we might have remained so — I was quite content to stay that way forever — is a moot point, but, as usual, our private moment was rudely interrupted. The room was suddenly full of people — my former mother-in-law and three children to be precise. But, as always with my nearest and dearest, it felt as if the hordes of Genghis Khan had invaded.

‘A fine scare you’ve given us!’ Margaret Walker upbraided me, standing at the foot of the bed, her arms akimbo. ‘Falling into the river like that! You could have been drowned! Don’t tell me! I suppose you were drunk!’

My feeble attempts at denial were frustrated by Elizabeth and Nicholas, who clambered on to the bed, hauling Adam up after them. My son promptly gave a scream of delight and threw himself across my face in a determined endeavour to smother me.

‘Ge’m off!’ I mumbled.

Fortunately, Adela was able to interpret this anguished, but muffled cry, and lifted Adam on to the floor, setting him down alongside Hercules, where he immediately gave vent to a howl that could split the eardrums.

My daughter, ignoring her half-brother’s tantrum with practised ease, said reproachfully, ‘You didn’t bring us home any presents like you promised. We know, ’cause Nick and I searched your jerkin pockets. Your scrip was empty, too.’

Her stepbrother nodded in agreement, then sniffed, wrinkling his nose. ‘Why do you smell so funny?’

‘Hercules has been licking me.’ I tried not to sound as irritable as I felt, at the same time trying to remember where I had put the small gifts I’d bought for the children. Memory came flooding back. ‘They’re in my pack …’

My pack! Where was it? It must still be in that house. My cudgel, too! My money, thank God, the takings of a fortnight, had all been in my pouch. But where was that? Had it survived my immersion in the river? I propped myself on one elbow, dislodging Elizabeth and Nicholas. They started to grizzle.

‘My pack, cudgel, money-’ I began frantically, but Adela hushed me, laying a cool, if floury, hand on my forehead.

‘Shhh! They’re quite safe.’ She turned to her cousin. ‘Margaret, would you be kind enough to take the children away, my dear? And that flea-ridden hound.’ Hercules gave her one of his looks. ‘Roger needs rest and quiet. After a week in bed, his strength is bound to be at a very low ebb.’

But her words only started me off again. As Margaret ushered children and dog from the room, I raised myself on both elbows.

‘A week?’ I gasped. ‘You mean I’ve been unconscious for a week?’

‘Not totally unconscious, no. You’ve been extremely feverish, not knowing anyone, not knowing where you were, talking a lot of gibberish.’ My wife leaned forward to kiss my cheek, but paused, grimacing. She reached for the ewer and a cloth, poured water into a basin and proceeded to bathe my face. ‘There, that’s better. You smell a bit less like a sewer and more like your normal self.’ I wondered uneasily what my normal self smelled like, but decided not to ask.

She was trying to keep her tone light, but I could tell that she was still deeply anxious about me. I squeezed her hand.

‘I’m all right. There’s nothing to worry about. I shall be fit and strong again in plenty of time for the midsummer revels, you’ll see. I just want to know what’s happened.’

‘We all want to know that,’ Margaret Walker remarked with asperity, coming back into the room. She seated herself on the opposite side of the bed to my wife. ‘Now then, Roger, how in the name of heaven did you come to fall in the Avon?’

‘Never mind that for the moment,’ I retorted peevishly. ‘What I want to know is who pulled me out. And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home, in Redcliffe?’

Margaret was offended, as she had every right to be. My rudeness was unpardonable, but her constant presence, when all I wanted was to be alone with Adela, was beginning to irk me.

‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ she snapped back. ‘I came to help look after you, you ungrateful lump. How do you imagine Adela would have managed with you to care for as well as three children and that idiot hound?’

I tried to look suitably chastened. I must have succeeded, because Adela hid a smile behind her hand.

‘Mother-in-law, forgive me. I’m not myself.’ Margaret liked to be called mother-in-law, even though Lillis had been dead for almost five years. ‘How did I get here? Who rescued me?’

‘It was the Rownham ferryman,’ my wife answered quietly, clinging to one of my hands as though she would never let it go. ‘When he returned to his boat after the storm, he saw you in the water. You weren’t very far out. It seems your leather jerkin had blown up like a bladder and prevented you from sinking, although the ferryman reckoned it wouldn’t have kept you afloat for much longer.’ Her fingers gripped mine even more tightly. ‘The passengers who were waiting for his boat helped him tow you ashore. Thanks be to God, you were still breathing. The ferryman recalled you’d said you were going home to Bristol, so he had you loaded into a farmer’s cart that was coming this way. And, of course, once the farmer reached the city, there was no lack of people who could direct him here.’

Margaret Walker opened her mouth, no doubt to make some caustic remark, but thought better of it and closed it again. I suspected I looked more of a physical wreck than I cared to imagine.

‘My pack! My cudgel! You said they were safe.’

‘It appears they were lying on the mudbank, where you must have dropped them. Or so the ferryman told the farmer. He put them in the cart alongside you. Roger!’ Adela leaned over and kissed me gently between the eyes, but she was frowning. ‘How did you come to fall in? And somehow or another, you managed to hit your head. You’ve a nasty contusion on the back.’

Margaret, who was evidently still smarting from my earlier incivility, repeated waspishly, ‘I suppose you were drunk. Sheltered from the storm in the Rownham alehouse, did you? Too much cider?’

‘No,’ I replied curtly, and said nothing more until I had a grip on my temper. Eventually I continued. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask the ferryman. He was in the alehouse. I started walking home along the Saint Brendan’s Hill track.’

‘But what happened?’ Adela asked, puzzled.

So I told them. I told them everything, and perhaps a bit more than I could actually remember. Where memory was a little frayed around the edges, I filled in the details with what I guessed or thought must have occurred. Then I lay back on my pillows, exhausted, and waited for their horrified exclamations.

These, however, did not come. Instead, the two women looked first at me, then at one another; looks of such significance that I was hard put to interpret them. Finally, Margaret Walker raised two fingers and tapped her forehead, but when she saw me staring at her, pretended to brush aside a strand of hair that had escaped from her cap. I shifted my gaze to my wife, who was regarding me with concern.

‘What’s the matter?’ I demanded. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘Roger, dear!’ Adela stood up, freeing her hand from mine and pressing it to my cheeks and brow. ‘He’s still a bit feverish,’ she said anxiously to Margaret.

I pushed her away. ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ I shouted. ‘You’ve seen the wound on the back of my head! You said so!’

‘Hush, sweetheart, hush!’ My wife tried to ease me back on the pillows, but I refused to budge.

‘Why do you both think I’m lying?’ I demanded furiously.

The women exchanged another of those significant glances, then Margaret said, ‘The house that you’re describing … It’s the one where the murders took place half a century and more ago. I remember Lillis telling you about it one evening, when we were sitting round the fire, just before Elizabeth was born. She was a good storyteller, that girl of mine. She made things come alive. The two women knifing the man to death, throwing his body into the Avon … I could see it all so vividly, and so could you. I know you could.’

‘You think I’m making this up!’ I exclaimed wrathfully. I rounded on Adela. ‘Is that your opinion, too?’

She looked uncomfortable. ‘I think you’ve had a nasty knock on the head, Roger. Before you fell into the river, you were near the house where this murder took place and the story was probably in your mind. When you’re more rested, you’ll remember what really happened. Maybe somebody tried to rob you.’

‘And left me my money and my pack?’

‘Whoever it was must have been disturbed,’ Margaret answered tartly. ‘And there’s no need to speak to Adela in that tone of voice. She’s a saint, the way she’s looked after you. Washing you. Shaving you. And other things.’ She grimaced.

I closed my eyes, trying hard to subdue my ill humour. When women start conferring sainthood on one another, a man has to be in serious trouble.

‘That’ll do, Margaret,’ my wife said gently. ‘Roger’s not himself. He needs rest.’ She stooped and gave me another kiss. ‘Try to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll come and see you again when I’ve set the dough to rise. I’ll bring you some wine and warm water. Are you hungry?’

‘No!’ It was a lie: I was ravenous. But at that moment I was so angry, I felt food would stick in my craw and choke me.

I refused to open my eyes when the two women tiptoed away, latching the bedchamber door behind them. There was the murmur of anxious whispering on the stairs before I was left to the cries of the street traders and my own uneasy thoughts.

I hadn’t imagined it all, had I? It wasn’t just a figment of my imagination? It really had happened? Of course it had, and there was a lump on the back of my head to prove it. My former mother-in-law had an explanation for that, as well, but it wasn’t the true one. The two women, the foreign-sounding man and the Irishman really had existed. No one had attacked me for my money.

I tried to envisage what might have been the sequence of events after ‘brown sarcenet’ and her companion had rolled me into the water. Perhaps the unseen man had followed them down to the river’s edge with my pack and cudgel. ‘We can’t leave these lying about,’ he could have said. ‘Throw them in with him.’ But maybe one of the women decided it would appear more natural if they were found on the bank, where I might possibly have dropped them …

A dreadful lethargy was beginning to possess me. All I wanted was to sleep. I let myself drift, ignoring the various aches and pains of my body and the dull throbbing at the back of my head. Hercules must have escaped from somewhere, because I felt him jump on the bed and snuggle up against my side with a contented sigh. The fleas would love it.

The next time I opened my eyes, it was early morning.

I could tell it was morning by the soft aureole of light rimming the shutters. And I knew it must be early because Adela was still in bed, curled into my back, one of her arms, free of the bedclothes, flung protectively across me. The rest of the house was quiet. No one else was stirring.

Both feet had gone to sleep and I tried to shift them without disturbing Adela. But she was wide awake at the first movement, raising herself slightly on one elbow to smile down at me.

‘That’s better,’ she said approvingly. ‘You’ve some colour in your cheeks at last. I think you’ve almost recovered.’

I yawned and stretched my arms above my head until the bones cracked. Then, without warning, I lowered them, trapping her in a warm and meaningful embrace.

She laughed, then reluctantly surrendered. ‘You’ve definitely recovered.’ She pillowed her head on my chest. ‘These last two days have made all the difference.’

I groaned. ‘Oh, no! I haven’t been asleep for another two days, surely?’

She raised her face to mine, looking guilty.

‘I kept giving you infusions of poppy seed and lettuce juice each time you woke. The apothecary in Bell Lane advised it. He said sleep would drive away all the brain’s ill humours.’

I relaxed my grip on her. ‘You still don’t believe my story.’

She kissed my cheek and looked even guiltier. I wondered what was coming.

‘Don’t be cross. I know that part of it, at least, is true.’

‘Which part?’ My suspicions were now fully aroused.

‘I know you didn’t go to the alehouse, so you couldn’t have been drunk.’

I turned on to my left side, so that we were face to face. ‘And how do you know that?’ I demanded.

There was a confession coming that I definitely wasn’t going to like. I knew Adela so well, I could sense it.

She ran a forefinger down my bare chest and avoided my eyes.

‘I asked Richard to visit Rownham Passage yesterday and speak to the ferryman.’

Sergeant Richard Manifold, Sheriff’s Officer! There was little love lost between him and me. In the past, before Adela married her first husband, Owen Juett, and left Bristol for Hereford, Richard had been among her admirers. And when, two years ago, she had returned, widowed, to her native town, he had aspired to her hand yet again. I know he found it hard to understand why she had chosen me instead of him. I found it fairly hard to understand myself, although, of course, I would never admit it. He and I had never overtly been enemies and once he had even recruited me — albeit reluctantly — to help him solve a crime. But we weren’t friends, either. We each rejoiced in the other’s little discomfitures and disappointments, and were quite happy to serve one another a backhanded turn if we could.

To give him his due, however, Richard Manifold had not been amongst the many who begrudged us our stroke of good fortune in inheriting the Small Street house; something Adela was never tired of pointing out to me. Mind you, I had my own theory to account for the sergeant’s lack of ill will. He had never married, and was happy to accept my wife’s hospitality whenever it was offered. Moreover, a house boasting a hall, parlour and kitchen was infinitely preferable to the overcrowded, one-roomed cottage we had previously rented from Saint James’s Priory in Lewin’s Mead. And I found his frequent presence at my table less irksome, being able to avoid his company once the meal was done. All the same, a state of armed truce was the best that could be said for the relationship existing between us, and the idea of Adela inviting him to poke his nose into my affairs made me so furious I could barely speak.

‘You … You asked Richard Manifold …’ I was unable to continue.

Adela’s face had drained of colour. She hated it when I was really angry. She wasn’t afraid of me — she had no reason to be — but she hated us not to be friends. Not that that ever stopped her saying or doing anything she thought was right. She had more spirit than any other woman I had ever met, even Lillis, whose bravery had once saved my life.

She retorted now, a slight edge to her voice, ‘You mentioned a murder. It was my duty, as a good citizen, to find out if this were true or no. I reported the fact to Richard. He promised to investigate and rode out to Rownham Passage yesterday morning to make enquiries.’

‘And what did our bloodhound discover?’ I asked nastily.

‘Don’t be childish, Roger.’ My wife reproved me in the tone she normally reserved for scolding the children. ‘Richard spoke to the ferryman — whose name, by the way, is Jason Tyrrwhit — and he confirmed that you hadn’t sought shelter in the alehouse during the storm, but set off along the St Brendan’s track. He was utterly astonished to find you floating in the river half an hour later, and was completely at a loss as to how you came to fall in.’

‘I did not fall in!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve told you what happened! You just won’t believe me!’

‘Hush!’ Adela laid a warning fingertip on my lips. ‘Let the others sleep for a while. Margaret is sharing Elizabeth’s room, and that child is a very light sleeper.’

‘So what else did Richard discover?’ I demanded angrily. But I lowered my voice.

‘Someone told him that the owner of the ‘murder’ house could be a James Witherspoon, nephew of the murdered man. When the two women were executed, the house passed to him.’

‘And what did he have to say?’ My heart was slamming against my ribs as my excitement mounted.

‘Nothing. No one of that name lives in Rownham Passage any more. It appears the house has stood empty ever since the murder. As far as anyone knows, it hasn’t been occupied for fifty years.’

‘It’s a lie!’ I exclaimed furiously. ‘There were two women and a man stopping in that house only last week. And there were a couple of horses in the hovel near the track! Why won’t anyone take me seriously?’

‘Sweetheart, we would,’ my wife assured me soothingly, ‘if there were any evidence to back up your story.’

‘Then what really happened? Tell me that!’ There was a pregnant silence. I waited grimly as realization dawned that my womenfolk had already concocted their own version of events. ‘Well?’

‘Richard …’ My wife produced the name tentatively, rather like someone proffering a handful of truffles to a wild boar. She cleared her throat. ‘Richard says that the ferryman told him you were talking somewhat wildly on the journey across from Ashton-Leigh. Something about building a bridge between the summit of Ghyston Cliff and the opposite heights. He thought maybe you’d got a touch of the sun. It was extremely hot the Wednesday morning of last week. He — we thought that perhaps you’d grown confused in your mind and wandered off the track down to the water’s edge, where … where you became faint or dizzy — or both — and fell in.’

I was so taken aback that I was rendered speechless for at least half a minute. Finally, I forced out, ‘It was raining! The heavens had opened! There was a violent summer squall! The weather conditions alone would have revived me if I’d been feeling faint.’ I drew a deep breath, trying to contain my frustration. ‘Adela … My love … I know what I saw and what happened to me. There were two horses, three people. They weren’t figments of my imagination.’

‘So what did these people look like?’ she asked.

This was better. Here, I was on surer ground. I plunged confidently into a description of the woman in brown sarcenet.

‘Tall, with a fine, big-breasted figure-’

‘Trust you to notice that,’ Adela grumbled, ‘even in a dream.’

‘About our age, maybe a little older, but not by much. Handsome face. I think her eyebrows were reddish in colour, which probably means she also has red hair. I didn’t have time to notice her eyes. Spoke and moved like someone used to command. A mistress, not a servant. Her gown was made of silk. Oh, and she had a black leather girdle, tipped with silver tags studded with turquoises. Good, brown leather shoes.’

I could see that this detailed picture had impressed Adela more than she would admit. She was looking thoughtful. ‘So, what about the other two?’ she pressed.

There was silence for a moment, during which I realized that what I had been thinking was solid ground was really a quagmire.

‘I … er … I didn’t see the man who was with them at all,’ I confessed reluctantly. ‘Just heard his voice. But I can tell you that he spoke with a peculiar accent. Not one I know. I couldn’t recognize it, if I’m honest.’

‘And the other woman?’

‘She …’ I tried to sound confident. ‘She had on a blue brocade gown — or skirt — and red leather shoes.’

‘And that’s all you can say about her?’

‘That’s all I saw.’ The admission sounded damning, even to my ears. ‘I was just recovering from a vicious blow to the back of my head,’ I added defensively.

Adela said nothing, and I could see only too clearly what she and Margaret had made of my story. They had talked it over and reached the simple conclusion that I had been adversely affected by the hot weather. My reported remarks to the ferryman had made that a certainty, not only in their eyes, but also in those of Richard Manifold and this Jason Tyrrwhit himself. Later, approaching the ‘murder’ house as I walked along the St Brendan’s track, I had been reminded of the killing and taken ill at one and the same time. I had wandered, not knowing what I was doing, down to the river’s edge and there dropped my pack and cudgel as I lost consciousness, falling into the water …

Might it really have happened like that?

No! My womenfolk had got me doubting the evidence of my own senses.

‘And the Irish sea captain?’ Adela’s voice cut across my teeming thoughts. ‘What was he like? You haven’t described him.’

The Irishman! Of course! How had I managed to forget him? I even knew his name. Well, I ought to have known his name; the man had proclaimed it loudly enough. Memory, however, was playing tricks on me — not surprisingly, I suppose, considering everything I had been through in the past week or more, but its loss was inconvenient at this juncture.

‘He was a big man,’ I said, ‘from the south of Ireland.’ I spoke with confidence. The southern Irish lilt was as familiar around the Bristol streets and Backs as our own west country burr. ‘He wore thick-soled boots, frieze breeches and had hands as big as shovels. He also carried a knife, but I’ve already explained that. Unfortunately, I didn’t see his face.’

There was a protracted silence before Adela whispered, ‘The man who was murdered in that house, all those years ago, was an Irishman. But I expect you know that. Lillis must have mentioned it when she told you the tale.’