The Midsummer Rose

Five

‘A body!’ Jack repeated, clutching his side. ‘A man.’

Richard Manifold frowned. ‘A drunk, I suppose, who’s fallen in the river and drowned. Nothing to get excited about. There are at least two such every week. Get a couple of men to carry the corpse to Saint Nicholas’s Church, then spread the word. Whoever’s missing a husband, son or father will turn up to claim the body eventually.’

‘You don’t understand!’ Jack shook Richard’s arm. ‘This man wasn’t drowned. He’s been stabbed through the heart.’

Richard cursed. There was now no way he could avoid going down to the Backs to take a look.

‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘There’s no need for you to come, Roger. You’d best be off home.’

But I had no intention of doing any such thing. I gave him and Jack Hodge a moment or two’s start, then followed them.

A crowd had begun to gather near Bristol Bridge, everyone looking at something — or somebody — lying on the ground. Richard Manifold shouted as he approached — ‘Make way for the law!’ — and the people fell back to let him through. He dropped to one knee and rolled the corpse on to its back, when the depredations caused by over a week in the river became horribly apparent.

I knew the body must have been in the Avon for over a week, because I recognized it without difficulty. I recognized the unnervingly thick-soled boots, the seaman’s stout frieze breeches, the hands, or what remained of them, as big as shovels. And I recognized the tattoo on the back of the left one: a ship and what had once been the word Clontarf. I noticed, too, a rent in the left breast of his leather, salt-stained jerkin, surrounded by a darker mark that had to be blood.

I touched Richard Manifold on the shoulder. ‘He’s an Irish sea captain called Eamonn Malahide.’ The name had suddenly come back to me.

The sergeant’s face, when he glanced up and realized who was speaking, was the picture of frustration.

‘I thought I told you to go home, chapman! This is none of your business. It’s strictly a matter for the law!’

‘Even the law needs witnesses and information,’ I snapped.

‘That’s right, it does,’ a voice from the crowd agreed.

Richard got slowly to his feet, looking as though he might be about to burst a blood vessel. His face was a brighter red than his hair. His blue eyes sparkled furiously.

‘And what would you know about anything?’ he asked me angrily. ‘Unless, of course, you’re the murderer.’ He sounded hopeful.

I repeated, ‘This man’s name is Eamonn Malahide. He was at the house at Rownham Passage. Adela must have explained how I saw a man murdered by one of the two women who were present. It was the reason you rode out there.’ I indicated the waterlogged corpse. ‘That is the man I saw killed.’

Richard’s features relaxed. ‘You’re not back at that nonsense, are you? Go home and lie down, Roger. You haven’t been well.’

‘I’m telling you-’ I began hotly.

But I was ignored. The sergeant was already directing two of the men in the crowd to carry the body to Saint Nicholas’s Church and give it temporary lodging in the crypt.

‘I’m telling you the truth, you dolt!’ I shouted. But instead of reacting angrily, as I had expected, Richard merely smiled in a nauseatingly patient and long-suffering way. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’ I went on desperately. ‘Why not, when the evidence is right there, in front of your eyes?’

‘Lad,’ he said, in such a condescending tone that I could barely keep myself from hitting him, ‘I’ve been to Rownham Passage. I’ve made enquiries. Nothing happened. No one saw or heard anything at all suspicious. Now, enough’s enough. Off you go and leave me to get on with the Sheriff’s business.’

I wasn’t sure that he was as unconvinced by my identification of the corpse as he was pretending to be. The trouble was that he couldn’t resist taking me down a notch or two in public, any more than I could have withstood a similar temptation. Adela was right: the rivalry between us had reached absurd proportions, especially as we both knew the true state of her affections. But Richard resented me, while I was unable to rid myself of an irrational jealousy of him.

I shrugged. ‘Let me know when you need to pick my brains again,’ was my parting shot. ‘Because you will, when you find out I’m telling the truth.’

The crowd had begun to disperse even before the corpse was removed. Violent death was too much of an everyday occurrence to engage people’s attention for long. I turned to resume my broken journey back to Small Street, and blundered into a young woman standing just behind me, catching her as she staggered and nearly fell beneath my weight. My first thought was that although she looked strained and somewhat troubled, she was extremely pretty. My second, as I was hit by a painful jolt of recognition, was that I knew her — had, indeed, once fancied myself more than a little in love with her.

‘Rowena Honeyman!’ I gasped.

It struck me later that she was nothing like as surprised to see me as I was to see her. But then, as it transpired she was staying in Bristol, I suppose she had already guessed that we might meet at some time or another.

I must have been goggling, open-mouthed, like a stranded fish. She smiled faintly and released herself from a clasp that had become more of a support for me than for her.

‘Rowena Hollyns,’ she corrected me. ‘The Widow Hollyns, to be precise.’

‘H-Hollyns?’ I croaked stupidly. ‘Widow Hollyns? Are you sure?’

But even as I realized the crassness of my question, memory stirred. I was transported back two years and more to the village of Keyford, near Frome, where I had gone, not only in pursuit of one of my investigations, but also in the hope of meeting Rowena Honeyman, who lived there with an aunt. I had been desperate to engage her affections, but before I could make a fool of myself, a neighbour had informed me of her betrothal to a young man whose name was Ralph Hollyns.

But another memory was jostling for position. Only yesterday, Marianne Avenel had told me that her sister-in-law’s companion was a Mistress Hollyns. It would be too great a coincidence to have two women of that name take up residence in the city together. They had to be one and the same person.

It might mean nothing at all, of course. I had yet to clap eyes on Mistress Alefounder, and until I did, there was little to connect her to the murder at Rownham Passage. I found myself hoping that Adela was wrong; that there was no similarity between the woman in the brown sarcenet and Robin Avenel’s sister.

‘Allow me to escort you home, Mistress Hon — er, Mistress Hollyns,’ I offered.

She was as beautiful as ever, with soft, rose-petal skin, eyes as blue as cornflowers and a full, gently curving mouth. And she disliked me as much as ever; I could see it in the hard, set lines of her face. She still held me responsible for her father’s death.

‘No, thank you,’ she replied coldly. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself. I’ve had to since my husband died.’

‘You weren’t married long, I think? Indeed, I know you could not have been.’

She refused to rise to my bait and ask how I knew.

‘Ten months. Ralph died of the plague last summer.’

‘You … You didn’t catch it too?’ I asked anxiously.

‘He was away from home when it happened.’ She did not enlarge on the subject, but added, ‘Mistress Alefounder has been very kind to me and given me employment as her companion. We are here, in Bristol, on a visit to her brother.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I know … You decided against returning to live with your aunt, then?’

She gave a mirthless smile. ‘Dear me! What a lot you seem to know about me, Master Chapman. But why are you so interested? Does your conscience bother you?’

‘About your father? I’ve never lost a moment’s sleep on his account, I do assure you.’ I was angry at the mere suggestion.

For a few seconds, she gave me back stare for stare, then dropped her eyes and turned away, indicating that our conversation was at an end. I looked around for Richard Manifold but he had disappeared. The life of the quayside was back to normal; the momentary excitement had passed like the shadow that it was, the dead stranger already half forgotten. By tonight, he would not even be deemed worthy of a mention in the alehouses. I hoisted my pack higher on my shoulder.

‘Mistress Hollyns! Rowena!’

Someone was calling to my erstwhile companion who, meantime, had set off towards the bottom of High Street. I saw her pause and scan the crowds. Then Robin Avenel appeared, pushing his way through the workmen and sailors who were impeding his progress. I gained on him and Mistress Hollyns rapidly, and was soon close enough to overhear their conversation.

‘What’s happened?’ Robin demanded, hurrying to meet her. ‘Someone told me that a body’s been dragged out of the Avon. A man! Murdered! Is it true? Is it … Is it anyone I know?’

Rowena smiled and my heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. She was even lovelier when she wasn’t frowning.

‘My dear sir, how can I tell? Our acquaintance has been so short.’ She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I heard it said that the poor fellow was a sea captain. An Irishman … Master Avenel, you’re looking very unwell. But it’s hardly surprising, the sun is so hot. Please take my arm. I’m returning to Broad Street now that I’ve finished my errand for Mistress Alefounder.’

Robin Avenel may have been suffering from the heat, or from anxiety, perhaps — as yet I wasn’t sure which — but it didn’t prevent him from taking full advantage of Rowena’s invitation. He leaned against her so heavily that she had to support him with an arm about his waist. Keeping a few yards behind them, I eyed him malevolently and recalled that I had always disliked him, ever since the days when he and I had both fancied ourselves in love with Cicely Ford.

He was about a year younger than I was, with auburn hair cut in a fringe and curling to his shoulders. He had a cherubic, florid face, was a dandy who adopted every passing fashion, regardless of whether or not it suited him, believed himself to be irresistible to women, and, above all, oozed the sort of self-confidence that came from being the son and heir of one of Bristol’s richest citizens. I loathed him, and was greatly cheered by the thought that his wife of a mere eighteen months was playing him false with her father’s brewery assistant.

I was hoping, as we entered Broad Street, that I might be rewarded by a sight of the elusive Mistress Alefounder, but I was to be disappointed yet again. As they reached Alderman Weaver’s old house, Robin Avenel produced a key, letting both himself and his companion in without having to knock for admittance. I was unable to loiter and so proceeded on my way, knowing that if I were to visit Rownham Passage that day, I was already pressed for time.

Adela had not been expecting me, but was pleased to see me nevertheless. She professed herself suitably impressed by my (almost) full pack and by much of the merchandise I had bought from the ships along the Backs. It was now ten o’clock and dinnertime, so I was able to sit down at the kitchen table with her and the children and share their rabbit stew.

While we ate, I told her of the man pulled from the Avon, and who he was.

‘Did … Did Richard believe you?’ she asked uncertainly, her spoon arrested halfway to her mouth.

‘He said he didn’t, but I was none too sure it was the truth. Do you believe me?’

‘Yes, I think I do. I think I have to. I don’t suppose you’d invent a thing like that.’

‘Thank you,’ I said and meant it, although my tone may have sounded a little caustic. I looked steadily across the table at Adela, engaging her eyes with mine. For once, the children were quiet, intent on emptying their bowls. ‘I also met Elizabeth Alefounder’s maid down on the Backs. The Widow Hollyns.’ I took a deep breath. ‘When I knew her, she was still Rowena Honeyman. I told you about her.’

I had indeed told Adela about my unrequited passion, and it had been her sympathy and understanding that had led to the completely unexpected revelation that I was not really in love with Rowena at all, but with herself. And I was still in love with her, which she knew. Unfortunately, she also knew that I would always be a little in thrall to those ladies who had once engaged my affections. She had had the experience of Cicely Ford the previous year. Now here was Rowena come out of the past to haunt us. But she gave no sign of any unease.

‘Of course,’ was all she said, ‘if Mistress Honeyman — or Mistress Hollyns as I suppose I must now learn to call her — lives in Keyford, she must know Elizabeth Alefounder well. Two widows drawn together by loneliness, one rich, one poor, what could be more natural than that the former should offer the other employment?’ She placidly resumed eating, leaving me to my own self-reproaches, until she was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Roger! Does this mean that Mistress Hollyns could be the woman in the blue brocade dress? The one who killed the Irishman?’

The idea had already crossed my mind, but I wasn’t about to admit as much.

‘Firstly, I haven’t yet established that Mistress Alefounder is the woman in the brown sarcenet,’ I pointed out. ‘Secondly, Rowena Hollyns gave no indication that she recognized Eamonn Malahide.’ I added slowly, ‘Though Robin Avenel, now … He did seem perturbed, even though he hadn’t seen the body.’

‘You think he might be the man whose voice you heard?’

I smiled at her. ‘Why are you suddenly so certain that my story’s true, and not the result of delirium?’

‘Because you gave me a detailed description of the man who was killed. At least, the part of him that you could see. It seems to tally in every respect with the man pulled out of the Avon. And I’ve only to visit Saint Nicholas’s crypt to check that you’re not lying … Will you still go to Rownham Passage?’

‘I must.’ I pushed aside my empty bowl and rubbed my overfull belly. If I weren’t careful, I should grow fat. ‘I still have to convince that dunderhead, Dick Manifold, of the truth of my story. There must be some evidence somewhere of what happened. Someone must have seen something, heard something, but I wouldn’t trust him to winkle it out. Mind you, I don’t suppose he tried very hard because he didn’t believe me.’

My wife looked guilty. ‘That was my fault, I’m afraid. He knew I wasn’t convinced by your story. As for Margaret …’ Adela broke off, laughing.

I grinned in reply. ‘She’ll be most upset if it can be proved I’m in the right of it, after all.’ The children had finished eating and were beginning to get restless. It was time to be off before I was captured to be a horse or a donkey and give them rides around the kitchen, crawling on all fours. As well as being the man with the flattest chest in Bristol, I was also on the way to becoming the man with the knobbliest knees. ‘I must go if I’m to get to Rownham Passage and back before dark.’

‘Then do as I suggested the other day,’ Adela said. ‘Hire a nag from the livery stable in Bell Lane.’

I’ve never been much good on horseback, although I have ridden, and for quite long journeys. I grew up in Wells and the surrounding countryside, but my chief pastime was playing football, trying to kick a blown swine’s bladder between two upright sticks. I was good at it, too. But with the time at my disposal I couldn’t afford to hire the slowest nag in the stables. The liveryman, therefore, apprised of my dilemma, recommended a solid brown cob; a good little mover, he assured me, but blessed with an even temper. I also paid for the hire of a saddle and duly mounted, feeling strangely unencumbered without either pack or cudgel, both of which I had left at home. I clutched the reins, urged the beast towards the Frome Gate and prayed that I wouldn’t make an idiot of myself by falling off.

The gatekeeper let out a whoop of laughter when he saw me.

‘What you doing perched up there, Roger?’ He grinned. ‘You look pretty stupid. I’d stick to my own two legs if I were you.’

‘I’m going to Rownham Passage and I want to get back before curfew,’ I answered tartly, not sharing in his mirth.

I knew all three of the Frome gatekeepers well, but this man, Edgar Capgrave, was the one I liked least. A little butterball of a man, almost as broad as he was long, with small, shrewd eyes set under beetling brows, he had an aggressive manner that many people besides myself found offensive. Nevertheless, he had an intelligence that his fellow gatekeepers lacked. He signalled me to pass through the arch with a dismissive jerk of his thumb, but instead, I reined in the cob and sat looking down at him.

‘Can you remember who was on duty here last Wednesday week?’

‘Last Wednesday week? That’s a bloody tall order, chapman.’ He puckered his fat little face in a travesty of concentration. ‘How’s anyone supposed to remember that far back?’

‘It was the day of the storm,’ I reminded him.

‘So it was.’ I could tell by the smirk on his face that he already knew that. ‘I might remember,’ he admitted. ‘Anything in it for me if I do?’

‘A groat?’ I suggested through gritted teeth.

He leered up at me. ‘Make it two. A rich man like you, a house owner, should be willing to help out his poorer fellow citizens.’

By this time, there were at least a couple of carts lined up behind me and the cob was growing restless. It moved suddenly, almost unseating me. The gatekeeper let out a guffaw, while one of the carters yelled, ‘Will you get a move on, please?’ Well, that was undoubtedly what he meant.

I gave the horse the office to start. I couldn’t waste any more time: it would soon be midday judging by the position of the sun. But as the cob clattered on to the quayside and, guided by me, headed towards the Frome Bridge, Edgar Capgrave called out, ‘I was the one on duty that day. Wait a few moments until these fools have cleared the archway, and then you can ask me whatever it is you want to know.’

He got a mouthful of well deserved abuse from the carters for his rudeness, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Indeed, the fouler the imprecations, the more they made him chuckle. He was a man who throve on confrontation.

I dismounted and led the cob back towards the gate. Even after less than quarter of an hour in the saddle, it was a relief to have both feet on the ground again. The two carts rattled away and there was a sudden lull in the amount of traffic passing in and out of the city.

‘All right,’ Edgar said, as though we had come to some unspoken agreement. ‘A groat.’

I towered head and shoulders above him. Even on foot, I still found myself looking down at him, a fact which many small people resented, but which didn’t seem to disconcert Edgar in the least.

‘You may not be able to tell me anything I want to know,’ I cavilled.

He shrugged. ‘That won’t be my fault, now will it? Just your bad luck. I’m more than ready to answer your questions. If, that is, you really have something sensible to ask me.’

‘Very well. A groat,’ I conceded grudgingly. ‘Were you on the gate all that day? The day of the storm.’

‘From dawn until curfew. Right! That was easy. Anything else?’ Pleased with his own wit, he guffawed again.

‘Do you know Robin Avenel’s sister?’ I asked. ‘She’s been staying with him, so I understand, since the end of May.’

‘Bess Alefounder? Of course, I know her,’ was the scathing response. ‘Known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. You forget, chapman, it’s you who’s the stranger in these parts.’ He proceeded to reminisce, as people will when they want to prove how much more they know than you do. ‘Handsome girl, she was. Older than Robin by about three years, but always treated him like she was his mother. Still does, I reckon, given half the chance, although she doesn’t see him so much nowadays, not since she got married and moved away to Keyford. Her husband was Gregory Alefounder’s nephew, first cousin to Master Avenel’s wife.’ Edgar Capgrave grinned lasciviously. ‘Reckon my fine Cock Robin’s bought himself a packet of trouble there.’

‘Oh?’ I endeavoured to look innocent.

The gatekeeper tapped his nose. ‘I know what I know. I’ve seen sweet little Marianne mooning after that Luke Prettywood. Never wanted to marry Robin in the first place. At least, that’s the word in the taverns. Arranged by the two old men.’

‘The day of the storm, last Wednesday week,’ I said, dragging the conversation back on course. ‘Can you recall if Mistress Alefounder and her maid left by this gate during the day?’

Edgar Capgrave replied without hesitation.

‘Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘Bess Alefounder was the first person through the gate that morning. Curfew had only just been lifted. It was barely light. She was wearing a light woollen cloak, grey in colour, as I recall, and riding that roan mare of hers. Looked down her nose at me, she did, just as if we hadn’t known one another since we were children. Mind you,’ he added viciously, ‘the Avenels were always like that. High and mighty, thinking themselves better than any one else.’

‘Was her maid with her?’ I asked.

The gatekeeper shook his head. ‘No. There was no one with her, not then. But now you put me in mind of it, she did have that Mistress Hollyns alongside her when she came back. That would have been … let me see … sometime around midday, I reckon. About an hour after her brother returned and about an hour and a half before they brought you home, half-drowned, in a farm cart.’ He laughed even louder than before at the recollection.

‘Master Avenel had been out as well?’ I queried.

‘Left by this very gate some two hours after his sister, also on horseback, if you want to know. But, as I told you, he was back after three hours or so.’ Traffic was building up again on both sides of the arch, waiting to be let through. ‘So, if there’s nothing else you want to ask, I’ll have my groat and be about my work.’

I took the money from my pouch. ‘One other thing,’ I said, continuing to hold it in my fist. ‘Did you happen to notice what colour of gown Mistress Alefounder was wearing?’

Edgar shook his head. ‘She still had her cloak on when she returned, because the rain hadn’t quite cleared away. But that maid of hers, I did happen to see what she was wearing. She had a cloak on, too, but it blew back in a gust of wind. Her gown was blue brocade.’