Wheel of Fate

FIFTEEN

That night, in bed, snuggled within the shelter of my arm, Adela expressed a strong desire to go home.

‘This house is becoming no place for children. Nor, indeed, for dogs,’ she added with a little catch of laughter in her voice, as Hercules, who had made our bed his own, snuffled and grunted and wheezed as though in the midst of an uneasy dream. She went on, ‘I’m sorry for my cousins, that goes without saying, but the wheel of fortune has spun so low for them, I’m beginning to be afraid that some of their ill-luck will rub off on us.’ She shivered. ‘After all the other things which have happened, I don’t know why losing my ring and this story of the robberies has upset me so much. But it has. The thought that someone, some stranger, has been roaming at will around this house, fingering our belongings, makes me feel that I can’t possibly stay here another day.’ And to my great consternation, she started to cry. She made no sound, but I could feel the shaking of her body as it pressed closer to mine.

I tightened my hold. She was right; the wheel of fortune, of fate, of life, whatever you want to call it, had spun so low for the Godslove family that the good luck sign must almost have reached its nadir. I had no wish for my wife and children (and, of course, dog) to be touched by such misfortune. Moreover, the resultant gloomy, despondent atmosphere was depressing us all: it could do no other. Since Celia’s disappearance, the house was like a tomb, and Adela felt it increasingly necessary to suppress Elizabeth’s and Nicholas’s high spirits and to keep Hercules from barking at any stray rat or cat that ventured into the house or garden.

I kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘I’ll visit Blossom’s Inn tomorrow,’ I promised, ‘and try to find a carter going to Bristol. It may take a day or two, but I’ll pay the landlord to send me word as soon as he knows of one.’

Adela propped herself on one elbow. ‘Oh, Roger, we can’t. We can’t just run away and leave Oswald and Clemency and Sybilla in such distress. You know they’re counting on you to solve the mystery for them.’

I snorted. ‘That’s in God’s hands. But no! I wasn’t intending to come with you. I feel I owe it to your cousins to make a further effort to discover what lies at the root of this mystery. Would you be willing to go without me? You’ll have Hercules for protection.’

The dog suddenly sat up, gave a little bark and then lay down again. I always have an uneasy feeling that, even in his sleep, he understands exactly what I’m saying. Ridiculous though it may seem, I often find myself guarding my tongue in front of him.

Adela clung to me. ‘I don’t want to go and leave you here.’

I was tempted to point out that no such scruples had weighed with her when she quit the Small Street house on the flimsiest evidence of my infidelity — I felt a glow of totally unmerited and unjustified self-righteousness — but decided it was foolishness to rake over dead ashes. Besides, I loved her.

‘It’s for the children’s sake,’ I urged. ‘You said yourself that this is becoming no fit place for them. And it may not be for a day or two — maybe even a week or two — because we must wait for a carter going all the way home. I won’t have you stranded in some strange town looking for another carter to take you the remainder of the journey. Now, will you promise me that you’ll go if I can arrange it?’

After a pause, she finally nodded, her long dark hair tickling my bare chest. ‘Yes, if you wish it,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll tell Clemency in the morning. Somehow, I don’t think she’ll mind. Indeed, I think she might even be relieved. I’m sure Oswald and Sybilla will be. When will you go to Blossom’s Inn?’

‘Sometime tomorrow. I’m going into the city to keep a further watch on Roderick Jeavons’s house. But first, I must ask for the name and direction of this man who was robbed of all his money and then visit Father Berowne at St Botolph’s.’

Adela raised her head. ‘You think these robberies have some bearing on what’s been happening to Oswald and the others? But how can they?’

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I just have a feeling in my bones that they could. I’ve no idea why.’ But I did. It was God putting it into my mind. I had no doubt by now that He was behind my coming to London. He could never keep His fingers out of my sauce dish: He was constantly stirring. It was His revenge for my having abandoned the religious life. ‘Go to sleep now,’ I added. ‘Perhaps I can prevent the wheel of fortune turning any further for Oswald and Clemency and Sybilla before they all drop off the bottom.’

Next morning, I left Adela and the children (and, needless to say, the dog) sleeping the sleep of the just and went downstairs to break my fast with Oswald who, looking like Death at a wake, was forcing himself to eat prior to setting out for his chambers near the Strand.

‘I’m glad you’re up early,’ he said. ‘I was hoping for a word with you before I left. Today, you’re to go back to Old Dean’s Lane and keep an eye on the house.’

It was more a command than a request, and he had no need to specify which house was meant. I had no difficulty in giving my promise as that was already my intention; but before reassuring him on that head, I told him of my plan to return Adela and my family to Bristol, forestalling his angry protest by revealing that I would stay on. After that, he was all compliance, even going so far as to say he thought it for the best, as he believed the children were growing homesick. And Arbella, coming into the parlour at that moment with a plate of freshly baked oatcakes, agreed wholeheartedly with the scheme as soon as she was made aware of it.

‘You really ought to go with them, Roger,’ she said. ‘You can do no good here. I think we’re all cursed.’

This remark not only drew a very strong refutation from Oswald, but also a spiteful rider to the effect that the family misfortunes were nothing to do with her.

‘You’re not a Godslove,’ he snapped, ‘and never will be!’

The housekeeper’s face flushed crimson with hurt and embarrassment, and I tried to distract her attention by asking for the name and direction of the man who had been robbed of all his life’s savings.

‘Why would you want to know that?’ she demanded ungraciously. ‘In any case, it was some years ago. It has nothing to do with us.’

‘If Master Chapman wants to know, tell him!’ Oswald shouted. Then, moderating his tone and turning to me, he said, ‘The man’s name is Peter Coleman and he lives two doors away from the Bedlam. He’s a woman’s tailor, and to the best of my recollection, the robbery took place at the beginning of last year.’

‘And when was the pyx stolen from the church?’

Oswald wrinkled his brow. ‘Not long before, I think.’ He raised his eyebrows at Arbella. ‘Isn’t that right?’

The housekeeper’s only reply was to dump the plate of oatcakes on the table and withdraw without a word. A spot of colour burned in Oswald’s cheeks, but he made no comment on her behaviour other than to pull down his mouth at the corners. He rose from the table, shrugging on his lawyer’s striped robe which had been draped over the back of his chair.

‘I must go. You are, of course, free to borrow Old Diggory whenever you wish. I shall see you this evening, probably sometime after supper as I shall be working late on a case with my clerk in chambers.’ He held out his hand in a sudden gesture of friendship that he had not displayed hitherto. ‘Find out what you can, Roger,’ he added on a note of desperation at variance with his usual frigid manner.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised, ‘but I can’t work miracles, Oswald, and sooner or later I, too, must go home. I have a living to earn.’

He waved a dismissive hand as though such a triviality were unimportant and hurried from the room. I went upstairs again to where my loved ones were still soundly asleep, thrust my knife into my belt and put on my cloak, for the early May morning had turned cold and showery. Today I had thankfully abandoned my smart new clothes for the old familiar hose and jerkin which fitted me in all the accustomed places and were as comfortable as a second skin. Moreover I should be far less conspicuous, just one of the crowd.

A few people were coming out of St Botolph’s as I neared the church, so I guessed that prime had just finished. I therefore went inside to speak to Father Berowne. He greeted me with delight.

‘You’re just too late for the service, Roger,’ he said, his eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter. ‘You must have overslept. What a shame! I know you must be sorry, but come and have some breakfast with me. I’m sure Ellen can find enough for two.’

I declined on the grounds that I had just eaten. ‘I won’t detain you for more than a moment, Father. I simply wanted to ask you about the pyx that was stolen from this church.’

He looked surprised. ‘But that was over a year ago. Why do you want to know about that?’

‘There has been another robbery. At the Arbour, yesterday. A ring belonging to my wife was taken. Clemency and Oswald mentioned the previous thefts.’

‘Thefts?’ he queried sharply.

‘It seems that a man called Peter Coleman was also robbed, of his savings.’

‘Peter? Ah, yes! I’d forgotten that. Well. . there’s nothing much to tell, I’m afraid. This is a poor church and the pyx was one of the few valuable things it possessed. It was silver-gilt and kept in that aumbry you see to the right of the altar.’ The priest shrugged. ‘The lock in those days was flimsy and easily broken, unlike the one you see on it now. By the greatest good fortune, the two candlesticks, also silver-gilt, had been removed by myself for cleaning on the very morning of the robbery.’ He grimaced. ‘And that’s all I can tell you, Roger. Although, as I say, why you should want to know. .’ He broke off, smiling at someone who had just entered the church behind me. ‘Mistress Rokeswood! You wish to speak to me?’

I turned. Arbella was standing in the doorway, and I had the fleeting impression that she was a little flustered. But if she were — and I could think of no good reason why she should be — she recovered herself immediately, walking forward and saying calmly, ‘I’ve come to confession, Father. I haven’t been since last Wednesday.’

Sir Berowne nodded, waving her towards the confessional and raising his eyebrows at me, an indication that it was surely time for me to leave.

I took the hint, wished them both good-day and left, walking the length of Bishop’s Gate Without until I reached the Bedlam. Already the shrieks and cries from within were loud enough to chill the blood, but I had grown used to them by now. I counted back two houses and knocked on the door.

After a few moments’ delay, it was answered by a small, wizened man whose most prominent feature was a large pair of ears, giving him the appearance of some woodland sprite. He was holding a needle and thread in one hand, and behind him, I could see a long trestle table covered with lengths of material. Several bolts of cloth stood against one wall and a pair of scissors dangled from the belt at his waist. He regarded me uncertainly.

‘Yes? Who are you?’ His voice was astonishingly deep for such a little man. ‘If you’re wanting a gown for your wife, I’m sorry but just at present-’

I interrupted his apology to explain my business, receiving in return the sort of blank look I had got from Father Berowne, and an almost identical response.

‘But that was a year and more ago.’

Once he grasped the fact, however, that my interest was serious, he seemed anxious to talk about his loss, inviting me in, clearing a space on the table and producing two beakers and a jug of what he assured me was the best home-brewed ale in London. (And while accepting this with a pinch of salt, I have to admit that it was by no means the worst ale I have ever tasted.)

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘Who, apart from yourself, knew where you kept your money?’

‘No one,’ he answered, his little face puckering with distress. ‘I had dug the hole myself, most secretly, when I first came to live in this house. A woman’s tailor, sir — ’ he indicated with a sweep of his hand the jumble of coloured silks and velvets that littered the trestle — ‘does not make a great deal of money. Thrifty goodwives make their own gowns and only those with money to spare can afford my services. And I dare not overcharge or I lose such custom as I have. But I’m unmarried and live frugally — a habit I learned from my mother, herself a sewing-woman — so I was able to save steadily against the day when my eyesight begins to fail me and my fingers to thicken and become misshapen-’

‘In other words,’ I interrupted, smiling, ‘you had a fair sum put by.’

He nodded ruefully. ‘But,’ he was quick to add, ‘it represented many years hard work. So, as I said, when I first came here, I dug a good, deep hole beneath the floor, over against that wall there — ’ he nodded towards the back of the cottage — ‘placed the money in its leather bag inside, stuffed the remaining space with scraps of old material and smoothed earth over the top. Then I stood that chest over the spot. The hole was not easy of access, I assure you, and I used to curse myself for having made it so difficult whenever I had money to put away.’

‘People, though, must have suspected you of having a secret hoard,’ I suggested. ‘A single man, living alone, making a reasonable living but spending little, would be bound to give rise to that sort of speculation.’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But the strange thing was that when I returned home on the day of the robbery, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The house had not been ransacked, neither upstairs nor down. Everything seemed to be in order until I went to put away the day’s takings that same evening. It was only when I had moved the chest and scraped away the layer of earth that I realized the hole was empty. The bag full of money had gone.’

This put a different complexion on the matter. ‘So someone knew exactly where it was hidden?’

‘But how could they?’ he protested excitedly. ‘I never told anyone of my hiding-place.’

‘It’s no good saying that!’ I retorted irritably. ‘You must have mentioned it to someone, it stands to reason. It beggars belief that a chance thief, or even an acquaintance who suspected you of hoarding money could go directly to the right place without prior knowledge of its location.’

‘I told no one,’ the tailor reiterated, growing rather red in the face, his ears seeming to stick out even further from his head.

‘Could anyone ever have looked through the window and seen you stowing your money under the floor?’ I asked with sudden inspiration.

He shook his head decisively. ‘I never did so until after dark, even in the summer months, when the shutters were fast closed and the door locked.’

‘And there’s no back entrance to this house? No one could have crept in and spied on you without your knowledge?’

‘There is, but that, too, was always locked once dusk had fallen.’

‘A mystery, then,’ I said, finishing my ale. ‘The church, too, was robbed, or so I’ve been told.’

Once again, Master Coleman nodded. ‘That was not long before my money was stolen. Sacrilege! Father Berowne was distraught. He told the congregation after Mass the following day and begged the guilty party to come forward and confess. He promised that no further action would be taken if the pyx were restored. But of course it never was. I’m a good son of the Holy Church, sir, and one morning shortly afterwards, when he was here visiting me because I was sick, I offered to head a subscription to raise money to replace it.’

‘And was your offer accepted?’

My host shook his head sadly. ‘Sir Berowne thanked me, but doubted if other folk would be so generous. I suggested the people at the Arbour, but he was loath to ask them. He said they had troubles of their own. One of the ladies had been seriously ill and another sister had recently died from eating a poison mushroom.’ He regarded me curiously. ‘You’re staying with Lawyer Godslove, aren’t you? And now another of his sisters has gone missing, or so I’ve heard. Such ill-luck!’ He shuddered. ‘There’s evil at work there, sir. And you say that the robberies have started again. A ring belonging to your wife? You need to be careful. Misfortune can be contagious.’

I rose to my feet. ‘So my wife believes. She is anxious to go home to Bristol as soon as maybe.’

The tailor got up with me. ‘She’s wise,’ he said and accompanied me to the door. ‘I hope I’ve been of some use to you; that you’ve learned whatever it is you wanted to know.’

I thanked him without giving him an answer. The truth was that I wasn’t at all sure what it was I had hoped to glean from him or what it was exactly that I had wanted to know. As I had said to Adela, I had been following one of those inexplicable hunches that possessed me every now and then. Or were they indeed directions straight from God? I was never quite certain: I only knew that they had to be obeyed.

Once outside the tailor’s cottage, I debated whether or not to return to the Arbour and saddle Old Diggory for the ride into the city, but in the end, decided against it. For one thing, my old clothes would consort ill with a thoroughbred horse and draw people’s attention to me. For another, the walk would do me good; I was growing lazy and putting on weight. I was used to going everywhere on my own two legs and had never been comfortable in the company of horses, a rather stupid animal in my estimation. I had my knife in my belt, and this, together with my height and girth, would afford me sufficient protection.

As I passed through the Bishop’s Gate, I noticed that there was no sign of any workmen.

‘The repairs are finished, then,’ I remarked to the gatekeeper.

‘God be praised,’ he answered devoutly. ‘All that noise! Banging and hammering and shouting and cursing! It was enough to drive a man out of his wits, so it was. Not,’ he added petulantly, ‘that it’s much better now that the Duke of Gloucester’s taken up residence at Crosby’s Place. Such a to-do and people coming and going at all hours. Still, it’s further down the road and not right in your earholes like the masons and the hod-carriers, which is summat, I suppose.’

‘Is the king staying there, as well?’ I asked.

The man gave a vigorous shake of his head. ‘Lor’ love you, no! He’s lodging with the Bishop of London, or so I was told by one o’ Gloucester’s men. Temporary, like. Rumour is,’ he added confidentially, warming to his theme and blatantly ignoring the impatient queue that was building up behind me, ‘his uncles want him moved to the royal apartments in the Tower, but they want his brother, the little Duke of York, to go with him for company. Trouble is, he’s in Westminster sanctuary with his mother and sisters, and Queen Elizabeth, well, she don’t want to let him out.’ The gatekeeper blew his nose in his fingers. ‘S’pose you can’t blame her, not after what happened to her brother and other son.’

I took no notice of the old lady who was prodding me in the back with her stick. ‘They were only arrested.’

‘Ay!’ The gatekeeper again nodded his head. ‘And imprisoned up north, so Gloucester’s man tells me.’

He was a fount of information and I would have liked to stay and gossip with him longer, but the clamour of indignant voices behind me was growing too great to be ignored. Reluctantly, I took my departure and walked on down Bishop’s Gate Street Within. Long before I drew abreast of Crosby’s Place, I could hear the hum of activity and saw at least five messengers wearing the Gloucester livery ride out, all in the space of five minutes. And just as I reached the turning into the Poultry and Eastcheap, I was forced to one side of the road as the duke himself swept past. Thankfully, he was surrounded by a vast number of attendants and men-at-arms, so failed to notice me, although I was able to get a good look at him.

Never of a high colour and always with something of the pallor of ill-health about him, he appeared even grimmer and more drawn than usual, as though he had the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. Which, undoubtedly, he had. Moreover, he was, and always had been, a man of the north, of the moors and mountains and wide open spaces of his beloved Yorkshire, and had never been happy in the south. London, I knew, particularly irked him, making him feel caged. But I reckoned that there was more to it than that. If his version of what had happened at Northampton were true — and I, for one, believed it — then his life had already been endangered; Sir Edward Woodville was at sea with half the royal treasure along with him; and somewhere at the back of his mind — or perhaps in the forefront of his mind — was the belief that he, and not his nephew, was the rightful king. But he had no proof. And as long as his mother chose to remain silent, there was nothing to say if the information I had brought him from France the previous year meant anything or no.

I waited for a minute or two until the ducal procession, obviously heading for Westminster, was out of sight before proceeding on my way, the length of East and Westcheap, in the direction of St Paul’s and Old Dean’s Lane.

There was all the customary early-morning bustle of goodwives sweeping yesterday’s dirt and stale rushes out of doors, throwing slops and excrement into the central drain, shaking dusters out of windows, so I was able to station myself opposite Roderick Jeavons’s house without being too noticeable and watch while Mistress Ireby, like her neighbours, busied herself making the place habitable again for the new day. She seemed, for the moment at least, to have no assistance, although I would have expected the good doctor to employ at least one maid. But it was possible that the girl (or girls) lived out and would eventually appear full of excuses as to why she had overslept and was late. For now, however, it was the doctor’s sister who plied the broom and disposed of the rubbish, but with such an irritable expression on her face, and with such constant glancing up and down the road, as to suggest that my theory was probably correct.

I was just pondering how to insinuate myself into the house and persuade Mistress Ireby to show me the cellar which she had denied was there, when the wheel of fortune suddenly spun in my favour. A neighbour, a stout goodwife, from a house a few doors distant came squawking along the street, obviously in some distress and begging for Mistress Ireby’s help. I was unable to hear the exchange of words between the two women for the crash and rumble of a passing cart, its iron wheels screeching over the cobbles in a more than usually ear-splitting fashion, but whatever the problem, it was of sufficient urgency to cause the doctor’s sister to drop her broom and hurry away with her friend, leaving her door wide open.

I didn’t hesitate, but was across the street and into the house in almost less time than it takes to tell. If Mistress Ireby returned quickly, then I should have to make up some story of having been unable to get an answer to my knock and, finding the door ajar, entering to see if she was inside. A feeble enough tale and I doubted if she would believe me, but I wasn’t prepared to pass up this golden opportunity to lay Oswald’s suspicions to rest once and for all. I felt certain I should find nothing, but convincing my host, once I had informed him of the cellar’s existence, was another matter, and only my sworn assurance that I had investigated it for myself would suffice.

Locating the cellar door took me a little longer than I had anticipated as it was not where I had expected it to be, under the stairs leading to the second floor or somewhere in the entrance passage. I finally discovered it in the kitchen, at first mistaking it for a cupboard until, having looked everywhere else, I at last opened it in desperation. It was locked, but there was a key hanging on a nail beside it; and there, facing me, was not, as I had assumed, some precious family silver or other treasure, but a flight of steps leading down into the darkness.

A hurried search of the kitchen provided me with a candle in its candleholder, and having lit it at the fire and descended the steps, I found myself in what seemed to be a surprisingly capacious cellar for the size of the house above it. Needless to say, it was empty except for a few barrels of what was probably wine or ale, along with various pieces of broken furniture: two-legged stools, chairs with no seats and the like which householders invariably dispose of in such places. But of Celia in chains, or in any other form of restraint, there was no sign. Nor had I ever expected to find one. This, I thought grimly, would put an end to Oswald’s nonsense and allow me to make enquiries elsewhere. (Although to be honest, where exactly I had at that moment no notion.)

I started to mount the steps again, hoping that I might be lucky enough to get out of the house before Mistress Ireby returned. But just as I was halfway up, I heard a girl’s voice calling, ‘Mistress! Mistress! Where are you? I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier, but one o’ the little ’uns was sick this morning.’

My guess about the maid who was late had proved to be unnervingly accurate and I hesitated, loath to make a sudden appearance which would most likely send the poor girl into a fit of hysterics. But that hesitation was my undoing. I heard the girl muttering angrily to herself, something about leaving the door open again, about it being dangerous and about someone falling down the stairs one day and breaking her neck. A second or two later, the cellar door slammed and I heard the key grate as it was turned in the lock.

I was a prisoner.