Wheel of Fate

EIGHTEEN

As I walked eastwards along Westcheap towards the Poultry and the Great Conduit, I realized that I had never reclaimed my farthing from the seller of hot beef ribs, and had carelessly left my bowl somewhere outside the silversmith’s shop for any fool to stumble over. I also realized, with a certain amount of unease, that I was growing adept in the dubious art of housebreaking, even though I had committed no other crime. Indeed, one might argue that on both occasions I had been trying to uncover a crime, and in the case of Master Jollifant’s father had actually prevented one. (It was my avowed intention either to return to the shop in a few days’ time or to apprise Ginèvre Napier of my discovery and leave that redoubtable dame to deal with matters in her own fashion. Either way, I felt that the old man would now be safe.)

Having eliminated the silversmith and the doctor from my enquiries very nearly to my satisfaction — I reluctantly acknowledged that there might be some small salient fact that I had overlooked regarding one or both of them — I now had to look elsewhere for my murderer. And at the risk of repeating myself, let me again say that I was conscious of the fact that God was doing his best to point me in the right direction but that my mind was clouded with other concerns. Or, at least, with something that I was desperately trying not to make my concern.

My thoughts were therefore in a turmoil and I walked blindly, bumping into people, almost getting run down by several carts, trampling over a flower-seller’s tray — which he had placed on the ground while he eased his shoulders — and ruining his blooms, knocking into a pieman’s stall and generally getting cursed up hill and down dale for my pains. Finally, I fell over a legless beggar, sitting on his little wheeled trolley near the Great Conduit, as I tried to get myself a drink of water.

‘Stupid oaf!’ he shouted furiously as I assisted him to regain his balance. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re bloody well going?’

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ I apologized. ‘Are you hurt?’

He felt himself cautiously in various insalubrious places before resuming his former pitiable expression. ‘I think I’m a’ right,’ he finally admitted grudgingly. ‘All the same — ’ he rattled his begging bowl suggestively ‘- I might’ve bin laid up fer a week or more, and then what would’ve become o’ my poor fambly? Eight childer me an’ my goody’ve got between us, bless the little perishers.’

Once again, I expressed my regrets, dropped more money into his bowl than I would normally have parted with, drank some water from the conduit, then went slowly on my way, the beggar’s last words ringing in my ears.

‘Eight childer me and my goody’ve got between us. .’

And those other words of William Woodward, Margaret Walker’s father. ‘Eight children! Eight of them!’

My legs dragged themselves to a stop as revelation dawned and I just stood there, buffeted by the passers-by whose imprecations were as nothing to those I was heaping on my own head. Of course, of course! Eight! My heart was hammering in my chest, and I had almost set out along the Poultry and the Stocks Market, heading for Bishop’s Gate Street, when I changed my mind and veered right from the Great Conduit into Bucklersbury. It was as well, before I took action, to make certain that my facts were correct and that there was no room for doubt.

I entered Julian Makepeace’s shop, still gloomy in spite of the warm May sunshine outside, and was met by Mistress Naomi, looking prettier and even more pleased with herself than when I had first seen her. The reason was not far to seek as she flashed her left hand with a ring prominently displayed on the third finger; not a wedding band, but plainly a pledge of some kind or another. I was obviously expected to comment, but my mind was too taken up by my recent discovery to waste time on polite conversation.

‘Is Apothecary Makepeace in?’ I demanded.

Naomi made a little moue of disappointment. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said, and flounced off to the living quarters behind the shop.

A second or two later, Julian appeared, exuding his usual aura of good health and unabashed friendliness.

‘Master Chapman, how nice to see you again. What can I do for you? Nothing amiss with your family, I hope?’

‘No, no!’ I answered hurriedly. ‘They’ve gone home to Bristol. Master Makepeace, there is something I must make sure of. You told me that after your mother married Morgan Godslove, you and Reynold went to live with an aunt-’

‘Grandmother,’ he corrected me.

‘Grandmother, then,’ I continued impatiently, ‘who lived in Candlewick Street. You told me that neither of you ever lived with her in Bristol.’

‘That’s quite correct,’ he agreed, puzzled but smiling.

‘Are you quite sure?’ I persisted.

He gave a little laugh. ‘Quite sure.’

‘Then did you and Reynold perhaps pay a visit to the house at Keynsham after your mother’s marriage to your stepfather?’ I suggested.

‘No, never. My brother and I didn’t see our mother again after her wedding day. I daresay that may appear strange to you, but travel was arduous and expensive and our grandmother was a poor woman. And Morgan Godslove gave no indication of desiring our company. Moreover, within three years of the marriage, our mother had born her new husband two children of his own to add to the four he already had by his first wife. He had no need of Reynold and myself. On the contrary, I imagine he was pleased to be rid of us so easily as we should only have meant two more mouths to feed. As for Mother herself, she was not a maternal woman. Our grandmother had always been the constant, steadying influence in Reynold’s and my life from our earliest days, so it was no penance for us to live with her permanently. Whether or not our mother would have shown more affection for Martin and Celia than she did for us we shall never know. Within six years of her second marriage she died of the plague, and our stepfather was a widower for the second time.’ He frowned. ‘You still look uncertain, Master Chapman. It would seem that there is something about my story you fail to understand.’

We were interrupted for a few minutes by customers; a woman who bought syrup of calamint for a child with a bad cough and another who wanted extract of feverfew to make into a poultice for a sprained wrist.

‘Be very careful with it,’ Julian advised the latter as he handed over the little box. ‘Keep it well out of the reach of your children. Concentrated feverfew can be poisonous.’

The woman thanked him and departed.

‘And now!’ Julian turned his attention back to me. ‘Master Chapman, what is bothering you?’

I took a deep breath. ‘When I was first told the history of the Godslove family, the person who gave me the details said that her father — a distant kinsman of Morgan Godslove who had visited the family at Keynsham — was horrified by the fact that there were eight children in the house. But by my reckoning I can only make it six: Clemency, Sybilla, the sister who died after eating mushrooms-’

‘Charity,’ Julian supplied.

‘Thank you. Yes, Charity and Oswald from the first marriage, and your half-siblings, Martin and Celia from the second. If, as you say, you and your brother were never present, not even for a visit, who were numbers seven and eight?’

My companion considered the question. ‘Could this kinsman of the Godsloves have been mistaken?’ he asked at last. ‘Is it possible that he miscounted? Six children stampeding around could possibly appear more numerous than they actually were.’

That, I knew, was true. When Nicholas and Elizabeth were playing one of their games, upstairs at home in Small Street, it could often sound like an army on the march.

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ I conceded reluctantly, but then shook my head. The number eight had recurred too frequently during the past few days for me to ignore it. God’s finger was inexorably pointing me in a particular direction. ‘Nevertheless, I don’t think so,’ I added. ‘My informant was adamant that her father said eight.’

Julian Makepeace chewed a thumbnail, as intrigued by the problem as I was. Meantime, I cudgelled my brains trying to remember all that Margaret Walker had said. Suddenly, memory sharpened.

‘Wait! Something’s coming back to me. I can recollect Margaret — the woman who told me the story — saying that after the death of his second wife — that is after your mother’s death — Morgan Godslove decided against marrying again. Instead he hired a housekeeper. And,’ I went on triumphantly, ‘I can even recall her name. Tabitha Maynard! That was it. But a few years later, she and Morgan were both drowned in a tragic accident. The two of them were aboard the Rownham ferry when it capsized in a terrible storm. Master Makepeace, is it possible, do you think, that this Tabitha Maynard had children of her own? Children who would have gone to live in the Godslove household when their mother became Morgan’s housekeeper?’

The apothecary stared at me for a moment or two, then sadly shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. After my mother died, all communication with the Godsloves ceased. Not that there had ever been much: one short letter announcing her death was all we received, and I knew nothing more about the family until they moved to London when Oswald was about fourteen. Clemency brought Martin and Celia to visit us, but we never had a great deal to do with any of them, even then. As for this housekeeper, I’ve never heard any mention of her until now.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I regret I can’t be of more help on the subject. But of course the people to ask are Oswald and his sisters.’ He rubbed the side of his nose reflectively. ‘If there were children, I wonder what became of them?’ Almost in the same breath, he answered his own question. ‘I suppose they would have been reclaimed by their mother’s kinfolk.’

‘Yes, I suppose they would,’ I agreed, and held out my hand. ‘Thank you for being so patient with me, Master Makepeace. I just wanted to be sure that the extra two children could not possibly have been you and your brother. By the way, am I to congratulate you?’

He looked bewildered. ‘Congratulate me?’

‘I noticed Mistress Naomi was wearing a ring.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘Oh that! She just chooses to wear it on her wedding finger and I don’t dispute her right to do so.’

‘But you bought it for her?’

‘I bought it as a favour from an old friend of mine who was in urgent need of ready money, that’s all. There’s nothing more to it than that.’

‘I see,’ I said and once more held out my hand. To enquire further would be to intrude upon his privacy to an unwarrantable degree. And I liked him as much as I had liked his brother. I wished to stay friends.

I retraced my steps to the Great Conduit and from there walked slowly homeward through the Poultry and the Stock’s Market, busy with my own thoughts and taking little heed of what was going on around me. I did notice, however, that several enterprising street-sellers had exchanged their usual goods for trays of ‘coronation specials’: cheap miniature replicas of bits of the regalia and little dolls in royal purple, distressingly bad wooden effigies of our young boy-king. I resisted the temptation to buy one, in spite of knowing how much Elizabeth would love it.

As I turned into Bishop’s Gate Street Within, I was forced into the side of the roadway by a bevy of horsemen all wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s blue and murrey livery, the animals’ coats gleaming like satin in the pale spring sunlight. And there in the middle of them was the duke himself, his small, dark face tense between the swinging curtains of almost black hair. (I remembered people who had known the late Duke of York saying that Richard was the only son who truly resembled him).

I withdrew into the shelter of the houses on the left-hand side, hoping to remain unseen, but suddenly the cavalcade came to a halt. The horsemen nearest to me shifted their mounts to allow the duke a passage through their ranks, and I noted with amusement their utter astonishment that the mightiest subject in the kingdom should stop to speak to a ragamuffin such as I appeared to be.

‘Roger!’ He was riding a big, handsome black with white stockings and a pair of flashing, brilliant, imperious eyes. He himself was still dressed from head to foot in deepest mourning and I noticed a network of fine lines around his eyes which had not been there when I last saw him and told of strain. All the same, he spoke cheerfully enough. ‘I was told that you were in London.’

I dutifully bent the knee and kissed the hand he extended towards me, but at the same time snarled, ‘That idiot, Timothy Plummer, I suppose.’

There was a hum of outrage from the duke’s escort that I should speak to him in such a fashion, but he only smiled and went on, ‘You’re lodging near here, I understand. Don’t run away, will you? I may need to send for you. I’m living at Baynard’s Castle with my mother for the time being.’

I muttered something unintelligible and he nodded before riding off, his retinue clattering after him, to vanish through the gates of Crosby’s Place.

My determination to return to Bristol as soon as possible was now stronger than ever. I had to concentrate all my energies on solving this mystery of the Godslove family and discovering what had happened to Celia. Not that I entertained much hope of finding her alive. All my instincts now told me she was dead.

Supper that afternoon was a strange meal without Adela and the children to cheer our spirits. Even Hercules’s absence was mourned: Clemency admitted that she missed his cold, wet nose nudging her for tit-bits.

To begin with, there were only the four of us, Clemency, Sybilla, Arbella and myself, but halfway through the meal Oswald arrived home and took his place at the head of the table. He seemed tired and out of sorts, a condition aggravated by none of us having any news to report of Celia.

He took a few spoonfuls of mutton stew, but refused the freshly baked oatcakes that Arbella offered him.

‘There’s a rumour going around the Inns of Court,’ he said, ‘that the executors of the late king’s will are refusing to administer it so long as the Queen Dowager and her children remain in sanctuary. For the time being, the goods are to be put under ecclesiastical sequestration.’

None of us made a reply to this nor did Oswald seem to expect any. He lapsed once more into moody silence; a silence I finally broke with my information about Adrian Jollifant and the discovery I had made concerning his father.

‘He permitted me to search the entire house, including the cellars,’ I said, stretching the truth only a very little for the sake of brevity. ‘Celia is not being concealed by Master Jollifant, so we can forget him as we can Dr Jeavons.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Oswald retorted grimly. ‘One or the other may already have murdered Celia and buried her body.’

The three women cried out at that and Sybilla, as usual, burst into noisy sobs. I waited for these to subside before pouring myself more wine and looking slowly around the table. Clemency shifted uncomfortably, as though she guessed that something portentous was coming.

‘After your stepmother, the former Widow Makepeace, died,’ I said quietly, ‘I understand that your father engaged a housekeeper, a Mistress Maynard. Tabitha Maynard.’ I hesitated a moment, debating whether to present my next statement as question or fact. I decided on the latter. ‘She had two children. I don’t know what sex they were; if they were two boys, two girls or one of each. But I know that she had them.’

‘A boy and a girl,’ Sybilla burst out. ‘Henry and Luc. .’ Her voice tailed away as she realized that Oswald was glaring furiously at her and had even raised a hand as though to strike her. ‘Oh. . I–I’m sorry.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sh-shouldn’t I have said anything?’ She started to cry again.

‘Why can you never keep your mouth shut?’ Oswald thundered at her.

Clemency hushed him sternly and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘There, there, Syb,’ she comforted the younger woman, frowning at her brother. ‘There’s no reason at all why Roger shouldn’t be told.’ She added significantly, ‘There’s no mystery about it.’

‘No. No, of course not,’ Oswald agreed hurriedly, realizing his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, Sybilla my dear. I’ve had a very trying day and I’m worried out of my mind about Celia.’ He turned to me. ‘Yes, our housekeeper — Tabitha Maynard as you so rightly say — had two children. A boy, Henry and girl, Lucy.’ He forced a smile. ‘May I ask what your sudden interest in them is?’

‘How old were they?’ I asked ignoring his question.

‘Oh. .’ He looked vaguely towards his elder sister. ‘What would you say, Clem?’

Clemency was brisk. ‘When our stepmother died and Mistress Maynard came to look after us, I should say that Henry was about six, a year younger than Oswald. Lucy was a little older, nine perhaps, or ten. Probably ten. She was fifteen when Father and her mother were drowned on the Rownham ferry.’

‘And what happened to them after that? Did they continue to live with you?’

Sybilla nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, they did.’

I moved so that I was looking directly at her on the opposite side of the table. ‘But they didn’t come to London with you, did they?’ I asked gently. ‘What happened to them?’

Sybilla immediately became confused. ‘I. . I. .’ she began, glancing wildly first in her brother’s direction, then at her sister.

Once again, it was Clemency who stepped smoothly into the breach. ‘Neither Henry nor Lucy wished to remove to London, so they decided to return to their mother’s family — a sister or cousin or someone — who lived in the village of St Bede’s Minster.’

‘But-’ Sybilla began, obviously bewildered.

Oswald hissed at her to be silent. ‘Yes, of course. I recollect now that’s what happened. I was only fourteen or so at the time,’ he explained. ‘Clem would have been nearly thirty. That’s why her memory is so much better than mine. But you still haven’t explained your reason for asking these questions, Roger.’

I glanced towards Arbella, sitting at one end of the table, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide with curiosity, the raisin pasty on her plate quite forgotten in her interest in the story. Clemency, ever swift on the uptake, began stacking the dirty dishes.

‘Time to wash up, Arbella,’ she said firmly in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I’ll call one of the girls to help you clear the table.’

The housekeeper flushed resentfully at what amounted to a summary dismissal, but had no option except to obey. She was not the mistress of the house yet, however much she would like to be, and probably knew deep down that she never would be. She moved as slowly as she dared, but in the end, with the maid’s help, she was forced to retire to the kitchen.

Clemency sat down again at the table and regarded me straitly. ‘What’s this all about, Roger?’ she asked. ‘You obviously have something to say that you don’t want Arbella to hear.’

‘Arbella is perfectly trustworthy, you know,’ Sybilla protested in her usual vague, woolly-minded fashion. ‘She’s been with us now for quite a few years.’

‘I’m not questioning Mistress Rokeswood’s character,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she is most reliable.’

‘But for some reason you don’t want her overhearing what you have to say to us, is that it?’ Clemency half-looked towards her brother, then changed her mind. When I inclined my head, she went on, ‘Does that mean that it — whatever “it” is — reflects badly upon us?’

‘Not necessarily,’ I replied quickly before Oswald could start to bluster. ‘It depends what your answer is.’

Oswald was on his feet, every inch the lawyer. ‘You have no right to catechize us about anything,’ he pronounced in his best courtroom voice. ‘Clemency! Sybilla! You are obliged to say nothing.’

Sybilla looked frightened, but Clemency said, in an elder sister tone that I had never heard her use before, ‘Sit down, Oswald, and don’t make a fool of yourself. You want Master Chapman to discover who’s been terrorizing us, don’t you? Who killed Martin and Charity. You want to find Celia or. . or her. . her body.’ She took a deep, steadying breath and nodded at me as, most surprisingly, Oswald obeyed and resumed his seat. ‘Well, Roger, what is it you want to ask us that you don’t want Arbella to know about?’

‘I want to know what really happened to Henry and Lucy Maynard.’

‘We’ve told you what happened,’ Oswald began, but once again, Clemency intervened.

‘Be quiet, brother! It’s time Roger knew everything. He’s been handicapped by our reticence, our inability to tell the truth, from the start.’

‘It has nothing to do with that,’ Oswald said positively. ‘I keep telling you.’

‘It may have no bearing on the matter,’ Clemency agreed. ‘But we don’t know for certain. And even if it doesn’t, for my own part, I can’t help feeling that heaven is punishing us for our sin.’ Sybilla began to grizzle again, but her sister ignored her and turned to me. ‘You want to know what happened to Henry and Lucy Maynard? We sold them to the Irish slavers working out of Bristol. You may think that the trade, which was outlawed by both Church and state, ended centuries ago, but-’

‘I think nothing of the sort,’ I interrupted. ‘I know that it still exists.’ I didn’t enlarge on the subject, although I saw avid curiosity in all their eyes. ‘Why did you sell your late housekeeper’s children to the slavers?’

‘We needed the money,’ Clemency replied simply. ‘Oswald wanted to study law and we knew — at least, Charity and Sybilla and I knew — that it would be as much as we could afford. We wanted the best for Oswald, so we had to move to London and quickly. He was already fourteen. Consequently, the house at Keynsham was sold for less than it might have been had we had more time at our disposal. Moreover, the Maynards, who were nothing to us. .’

‘We’d only let them stay on with us after Tabitha died out of the goodness of our hearts,’ Sybilla chimed in indignantly. ‘They weren’t Godsloves, after all.’

‘They intended to accompany you to London?’ I queried.

Clemency bit her lip. ‘It never occurred to them that we didn’t want them. After seven years, I’m afraid they regarded themselves as a part of the family. It was partly our own fault. We should have asked them to leave when Father and their mother died. Unfortunately, we were quite fond of them and stupidly let them remain.’

‘But now you didn’t want them any more?’

Clemency sighed. ‘It sounds so callous when put like that. But no, once the decision was taken concerning Oswald and the move to London, and once money became an object with us, they were just two more mouths to feed.’

‘We did ask them to leave,’ Sybilla pointed out self-righteously, wagging her head from side to side.

‘They had nowhere to go. There was no kinswoman living in St Bede’s Minster.’ Clemency suddenly dropped her gaze, avoiding my eyes. ‘I don’t know whose idea it was to rid ourselves of them and make money at the same time. Maybe it was Charity’s, maybe it was mine.’

‘Well, it certainly wasn’t mine,’ Sybilla cut in virtuously. ‘But it was the right decision, all the same.’

‘Hush, Syb,’ her sister commanded tartly. Clemency hadn’t looked up, but she must have guessed at my expression.

‘So you sold them to the Irish slavers.’ This then was the ‘terrible secret’ my little kitchen maid had heard mentioned. ‘You knew where to find them?’

Clemency nodded. ‘I had been visiting Bristol all my life, and everyone in the city knows about “little Ireland”.’ Her voice became almost inaudible. ‘It wasn’t difficult to arrange for Henry and Lucy to be abducted.’

‘I keep telling you, Clem,’ Oswald broke in angrily, ‘this. . this persecution can have nothing to do with the Maynards. You’ve always been quite adamant that neither of them could have known that you and Charity and Sybilla were behind it.’

‘I didn’t think they did,’ Clemency admitted desperately. ‘We just took them into Bristol one morning and. . and made some excuse to leave them in the vicinity of Marsh Street for a while. We’d previously arranged with one of the slavers where they would be found. I daresay, to be sure, he was watching when we left them. Certainly, they had vanished by the time we returned and we’ve never seen anything more of them from that day to this.’

‘I hope you got a good price for them,’ I said before I could stop myself.

Clemency flushed a dark red, but her only answer was, ‘Good enough.’ She added defensively, ‘I’ve always heard that the Irish treat their slaves very well.’

I didn’t remark that well-treated or not, slavery was never the same as freedom. There seemed to be no point: they knew that as surely as I did. Instead I asked, ‘And it has never occurred to you that this Lucy and Henry Maynard might be behind all your troubles?’

‘No, of course not,’ Oswald said, bringing his hands down on the table and once more getting to his feet. ‘If they’d known the truth, why would they have waited all these years to get their revenge?’