Wheel of Fate

NINETEEN

I didn’t believe him.

I realized with sudden clarity that the possibility, although not the probability, of it being the Maynards had been lurking somewhere in the back of his mind, firmly suppressed, from the very beginning of this unhappy saga. It accounted for his indifference to my suggestion that any of his past, or even present, clients might be responsible for the terrible vengeance being wreaked upon his family, and his persistent failure to supply me with a list of names. It also explained his determination that Roderick Jeavons should prove to be the culprit. The doctor not only had a strong motive, but Oswald hated him because the man had the temerity to be in love with Celia. My previous suspicion that the lawyer was himself in love with his half-sister had now become a certainty — and it was, moreover, absolutely necessary that there should be a suspect with a good enough reason for the vendetta to obviate those two ghosts from the past.

After his outburst, Oswald stumped from the room, leaving me alone with Clemency and Sybilla. I looked at the former and raised my eyebrows. ‘What do you think, mistress?’

She appeared suddenly much older than her fifty-odd years and put up a frail hand to push back a tress of hair that had escaped from beneath her cap.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But from the beginning, ever since things started to go seriously wrong, I’ve been afraid that we were all being punished for our crime. Although,’ she added desperately, ‘as Oswald says, if Lucy and Henry knew all along that we were to blame for their capture, that it was not just chance, why would they have waited so long to take their revenge? And why would they have killed Reynold Makepeace? Our stepbrothers were unknown to them. And how would they have discovered where to find us?’

‘I can’t give you answers to all your questions,’ I said. ‘But as to the third, finding you would have presented little difficulty. They knew you and your siblings intended coming to London, and they knew the reason why. They would only have needed to ask around the inns of court to discover a lawyer named Godslove, and once he had been pointed out to them, following him home would have been a simple enough matter. As for why they waited so long, that would have depended on a number of factors; when they left Ireland for one. And having found you, they may have been in no hurry to execute vengeance. They could have relished seeing you suffer as they had suffered, and were in no mind to bring it to a swift conclusion. Slowly, one by one, they are eliminating the whole family. First attempts are not always successful, as witness you and Sybilla, but that probably doesn’t worry them. In some ways it makes the chase more fun and prolongs your misery.’

‘But where are they? Who are they?’ Clemency asked in trembling tones, her face as white as the broad collar protecting the shoulders of her gown. Then suddenly, like Oswald, she heaved herself to her feet, slamming both hands down on the table top and making her sister jump. ‘No! I don’t believe this is the answer! I won’t believe it! Lucy and Henry had no idea that we were behind their seizure by the Irish slavers. Charity and I had been most careful to go in disguise to that inn in Marsh Street when making the necessary arrangements, and we were careful to be nowhere near when they were taken.’

‘You don’t think the slavers themselves knew and revealed the truth?’

But even as I asked the question, I guessed it to be unlikely. The Irishmen who carried on their illegal trade with the help of Bristol’s respectable citizens, were men who knew how to keep their mouths shut. Nor were they interested in the whys and wherefores of their nefarious transactions or in exchanging small talk with their victims. It was a business like any other, though perhaps more lucrative than some, and as such, respect for the client was paramount. So when Clemency answered firmly that she thought it impossible, I was forced to agree with her.

We joined Oswald in the parlour and, by tacit consent, the rest of the evening passed without further discussion of the subject, even though it was the one uppermost in all our minds. We speculated where Adela and the children might be spending their first night on the road, I expressed my total confidence in Jack Nym, and we speculated in a desultory kind of way about Oswald’s news concerning the late king’s will. But eventually, and much earlier than usual, we parted company and went to bed. As I mounted the stairs, I could hear Arbella still clattering angrily around in the kitchen.

I woke suddenly in the middle of the night, my heart pounding and my hands groping for the comfort of Adela’s body, only to realize, of course, that I was alone. The door to the children’s room stood open, emitting a deafening silence, and there was no Hercules, snuffling and whining pitifully to be allowed on to our bed.

I sat up, pushing the hair out of my eyes and passing a hand across my damp forehead, trying to pinpoint what exactly had woken me. I had been dreaming, I was sure of that, but, most unusually, was unable immediately to recall my dream. I had been in the apothecary’s shop; I could still see the rows of bottles on the shelves, the bunches of dried herbs, the pestle and mortar on the counter, and I had been talking to someone. Julian Makepeace? No, he had not been present, I would swear to that. His housekeeper, young Naomi, then? Yes, that was it. I even recalled being able to smell the faint scent of rosemary that emanated from her gown. She had been saying something to me, but what? I shut my eyes against the shadows of the room, the empty beds, the feeling of loss, and concentrated hard. .

Her face, as I had seen it in my dream, flashed suddenly and vividly before me. She was holding up her left hand, a small, triumphant smile curling the sensuous mouth. ‘Do you like my ring?’ she had asked. ‘Do you like my ring?’

And it was at that moment that I had recognized it. It was Adela’s ring, the one I had bought for her from Master Jollifant’s silversmith’s shop. The one that had been stolen from the Arbour. It was the shock of that recognition that had wakened me, bringing me out in a sweat.

I opened my eyes again, accustomed now to the darkness and able to make out the lineaments of the furniture and the faint grey light around the shutters. What was it that Julian Makepeace had said when I had quizzed him about its purchase? ‘I bought it as a favour from an old friend of mine who was in need of ready money, that’s all.’ But who was the old friend? And what was he or she doing with a stolen ring? Was he or she the thief? Or had this person come by it in all innocence? Well, I had only to visit the apothecary’s shop again to find out, and I would most certainly do that first thing in the morning, after breakfast.

I found I was shaking with excitement, and tried to calm myself by eating a little of the bread and drinking some of the water which Arbella, ever mindful of her domestic duties, had placed beside my bed for my ‘all-night’. I had just reached for the water bottle a second time, when a slight noise made me push back the bed curtain and look towards the door. The latch was being very slowly and cautiously lifted, but it was stiff with age, like so many others in the house, and had to be dealt with firmly. It resisted all attempts to treat it gently.

I eased myself out of bed as silently as possible, intending to station myself behind the door when it opened and thus surprise the intruder. But as I returned the water bottle to the tray, my hand shook and I dropped it on the floor where it rolled a little way before fetching up against the clothes chest with an almighty thud. Cursing, I called out, ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’ and in getting out of bed, slipped in one of the puddles of water left by the bottle’s contents and sat down heavily, giving my spine a nasty jar in the process.

I forget which particular profanities issued from my lips; suffice it to say that they were not for repetition and would have provoked Adela’s censure had she been there. I wrenched open the door with a fury that almost broke the latch and stepped out into the passage.

Needless to say, it was empty. I glanced to right and left, but no sign of life disturbed the shadows. The house was as quiet as the grave, not even a faint snore breaking the silence. I went back to bed and, hopefully, to sleep, persuading myself that I had been mistaken. But I dragged the chest across the doorway, all the same.

Bucklersbury was its usual busy early morning self as I picked my way through the overflow from the common drain and entered Julian Makepeace’s shop for the second time in twenty-four hours. He was busy at the counter, selecting pills from a large tray in front of him, and counting them into little boxes. Absorbed in his task, he did not immediately look up as I entered.

‘. . six, seven, eight, nine, ten. And what can I do for you, s. .?’ His voice tailed away as he recognized me and he made a comical grimace. ‘Master Chapman!’ he exclaimed, but was too polite to utter the word ‘again’. Nevertheless, I could hear it in the inflection of his voice. He smiled resignedly. ‘Have you by any chance come to buy something this time?’

I regret that I didn’t even bother to reply to this soulful query, so anxious was I to get an answer to my own question. ‘Master Makepeace, who sold you that ring?’ He looked so affronted, angry almost, that I was forced to explain the circumstances and the reason for my enquiry. ‘So you see,’ I finished lamely, ‘why I need to know.’

‘If you are correct, yes,’ he said gravely, and going to the door at the back of the shop which opened into the living quarters, called, ‘Naomi, my dear, please come here and bring the ring I gave you.’ There was a moment’s pause before she appeared. ‘Show it to Master Chapman,’ he instructed.

The pretty face assumed a mulish expression. ‘Why should I?’

The apothecary sighed. ‘Just do as I say.’ And before the girl realized what he would be about, he had grabbed her left wrist and forced her hand towards me. ‘Is that your wife’s ring, Master Chapman?’ Naomi gasped in protest and tried to pull free, but Julian Makepeace’s grip remained firm. ‘Is it?’ he repeated.

I nodded, adding, ‘I’m sure the silversmith, Adrian Jollifant, will, if necessary, confirm that it’s the one he sold me.’

‘No!’ Naomi put her hands behind her back and turned to her lover (I felt certain Julian was that). ‘It’s mine. He shan’t have it. He’s lying. You heard what she said. She said it had been given to her when she was a young girl and she hated having to part with it.’

‘Who said?’ I demanded urgently.

The apothecary pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Where did you say your wife lost the ring, Master Chapman?’

‘She didn’t lose it. It was stolen from the Arbour. Someone must have got into the house.’

Julian Makepeace shook his head sadly. ‘I doubt that, my friend. You see it was Arbella Rokeswood who offered it to me.’

‘Arbella?’ For a moment or two I stared at him incredulously, but then things began to fall into place. For a start, who of the Arbour inmates would have been the most likely to try to enter my bedchamber the previous night? Not Oswald or his sisters: they would have no reason to do so. But if Arbella. . My heart was pounding again and I had to grip the edge of the counter. If Arbella were really Lucy Maynard and was beginning to fear that I suspected the truth, might she not make an attempt to silence me? She would surely not balk at another murder, having killed, or helped to kill, a number of times already. .

But was she Lucy Maynard? Perhaps her story that she was in need of money had been the truth. Maybe she had taken Adela’s ring for just that reason. On the other hand, I had little doubt that she was paid well enough by the Godsloves; her food and shelter were supplied and, as far as I could see, she had few wants of her own. And what of her apparent passion for Oswald? Was that just simulated as an additional part of her disguise, if she were indeed the long lost Lucy? Or had she, at some point in her masquerade genuinely fallen in love with him?

I suddenly became aware that Naomi was screaming the most unladylike obscenities at Julian Makepeace, and that he was offering me the ring which he seemed to have prised from her finger by force.

‘Take it, Master Chapman,’ he was saying. ‘I believe you. It’s yours. Why should you lie about it? It will teach me not to do old friends a good turn in future.’

‘Master Makepeace,’ I said, leaning towards him and raising my voice, ‘you say Mistress Rokeswood is an old friend. How old? What do you know about her?’

It was his turn to look startled. ‘I–I’ve known Arbella for several years now. She’s always come here to buy the family’s medicines when they were needed. And other things like fleabane for keeping the fleas at bay, and alkanet for colouring cheeses and a mixture of my own — gall nuts and iron and alum — for dying hair. A pleasant woman, pleasantly spoken, politer by far than my stepsisters’ previous housekeeper, who-’

I interrupted him unceremoniously. ‘She’s only kept house for the Godsloves for the past year or so, then?’

‘Three years. Maybe four. I can’t remember. Does it matter?’

‘Perhaps.’ I held out my hand. ‘Master Makepeace, I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you believe my story and for returning Adela’s ring. I suppose. . I suppose Mistress Rokeswood didn’t mention why she needed money so urgently?’

He eyed me curiously. ‘No, nor did I ask.’ He glanced ruefully at the door at the back of the shop through which Naomi had just that moment flounced, oozing enough ill-will to make any man wince in anticipation of the tirade to come. ‘What will you do? Will you confront Mistress Rokeswood with the theft? I shall certainly be wary of her in future.’

‘I don’t know,’ I answered cautiously. ‘I must think it over. It might be awkward to accuse her while I’m still a guest at the Arbour.’ I saw that he was about to dispute this argument and went on hurriedly, ‘I’ll relieve you of my presence. Thank you again for being so understanding. If ever I can do anything for you. .’

‘As a matter of fact, there is,’ he said, smiling faintly. He took a small box from the shelf behind him. ‘This is Father Berowne’s extract of feverfew. He likes to keep some handy for making poultices when he hurts himself working in that garden of his. If you’re passing his door, will you give it to him?’

‘Of course,’ I answered, putting the little box into my pouch, glad that there was something I could do in exchange for his unconditional acceptance of my story. He came out from behind the counter and moved towards the shop door to open it for me, but I stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I recall you saying that extract of feverfew is poisonous. Could it be administered in a drink?’

For a moment, he looked startled, then laughed. ‘It would be difficult. In that form — ’ he nodded at my pouch — ‘it’s very bitter. An infusion of the flowers and leaves can be used to alleviate headaches and ease women’s monthly pains, and mixed with wine and honey they are a good cure for melancholy and dizziness. But when the plant’s juices are concentrated, the result, as I say, is bitter.’

‘Is there any way in which the taste might be disguised?’ It was my turn to laugh at his anxious expression. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not planning to do away with anyone.’

He looked shamefaced. ‘No, I didn’t really think you were.’ He considered for a moment. ‘I suppose if you smeared a little of the extract around the rim of a beaker, the drinker might not notice it. I daresay it wouldn’t prove fatal, but it could make a person ill.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been extremely patient and most understanding.’ I glanced towards the opposite door. ‘I hope you make your peace with Mistress Naomi and that she won’t make you suffer too greatly.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll do that, but it will cost me another ring I don’t doubt. Women!’ he added. ‘But we can’t do without them, I suppose.’

I walked back along Bucklersbury deep in thought. The muckrakers were by now busy at work on the central drain and the night-soil removers, with their noisome little carts, were going from house to house emptying the privies, while several roisterers, already drunk even at this early hour of the morning, rolled out of the Voyager, something that would never have happened in Reynold Makepeace’s day. But I hardly noticed any of these things — or if I did, paid them no heed — being deep in thought.

Why would Arbella Rokeswood be in need of money? And another thought intruded before I had formed the answer to my question. Adam had recollected that the person he had overheard talking to Celia in the Arbour garden had been a woman. Could it possibly have been Arbella? Almost at once, I realized that if that were so, then it would explain why Celia had failed to inform anyone else that she was going out. She would naturally have assumed that the housekeeper would tell them where she was. And she had most probably gone at Arbella’s instigation.

Having by this time reached the Great Conduit again, I paused for a drink and to splash my face and hands with water. Feeling somewhat refreshed, I returned to my first question: why was Arbella suddenly in need of money? And what for? The answer came with the memory of something I had said to Oswald; that it must cost a great deal to hire bravos willing to kill to order. And immediately I remembered those other two thefts: the pyx taken from St Botolph’s Church and the stealing of the tailor’s savings from his cottage near the Bedlam. Father Berowne had said that the pyx was stolen over a year ago and Peter Coleman had said much the same thing about his gold. And in the autumn of the preceding year, Martin Godslove had been set upon, apparently by street robbers, and murdered, while within the past few months or so, Sybilla had been injured by falling masonry from the Bishop’s Gate wall.

I remembered something else as well; three things, in fact. The first was how Arbella had kept urging me to return to Bristol with Adela and the children; the second was her reluctance to tell me the tailor’s name and address until bullied into it by Oswald; and finally, I recalled Arbella’s appearance at the church the day before yesterday while I was talking to the priest. My initial impression had been that she was flustered by the sight of me. But with her usual self-possession, she had quickly recovered her countenance and allayed any curiosity on my part by announcing she had come to confession.

I realized that I was walking up Bishop’s Gate Street Within without any clear idea of how I got there. It was quiet today, quieter than it had been at any time since my arrival a fortnight previously; although I had to admit that that St George’s Day now seemed more like two months than a mere two weeks ago. And for one of those two weeks I had been ill, thanks to an excess of Father Berowne’s elderflower wine. .

Or had that really been the cause? I drew out the little box from my pouch and contemplated it, another suspicion taking shape in my mind. Yet more memories surfaced; one in particular: the tailor’s story of how he had volunteered to head a subscription to replace the stolen pyx during one of Father Berowne’s visits to him. The offer alone would have implied that he had money put by, and although he had not actually said as much, I suspected it to be more than possible that he had confided further in the priest, even going so far as to disclose his treasure’s hiding place. It would have been the natural thing to do, and the tailor had been emphatic that nothing had been disturbed during the robbery. Whoever took the money seemed to have known exactly where to look for it. .

I paused, leaning against the wall of Crosby’s Place, biting my lower lip between my teeth and trying to discern where my galloping thoughts were leading me. Were they really saying what they appeared to be saying? That Father Berowne was a murderer and a thief? That he was in reality Henry Maynard? But even as I told myself that the idea was ridiculous, I could hear in my imagination the priest’s Irish lilt and his hasty denial that he had ever seen that country. His explanation had been that he must have picked it up from his father, who came from around Waterford, and I had said. . What had I said? I struggled to remember. I had said that the slavers used the coves and inlets around the port to land their illegal cargoes, and he had known instantly what I meant. There had been no need to explain to him the details of Bristol’s infamous trade with their southern Irish neighbours.

Arbella Rokeswood and Father Berowne, could they truly be Lucy and Henry Maynard? Charity Godslove’s death by mushroom poisoning could so easily have been arranged by the housekeeper, as could the mysterious illness that had so nearly disposed of Clemency. And my own indisposition after toping with the priest might well have been caused not by too much elderflower wine, as I and everyone else had assumed, but by something administered either in the drink itself or smeared on the cup.

The more I considered the idea the more plausible it seemed, and the less I was able to reject it. And if money was again becoming an object with the pair, it must surely mean that they had another plan afoot to dispose of one of the three remaining siblings; a plan which entailed the assistance of someone other than themselves, as in the deaths of Martin Godslove and Reynold Makepeace and the attempted murder of Sybilla. And what of Julian Makepeace? If it had been considered a part of the couple’s revenge to dispose of not just the culprits, but anyone else remotely connected with them, then the apothecary’s life might also be in danger. I have often heard people carelessly use the expression ‘my blood ran cold’, but now I knew what was meant in good earnest. I found I was shivering convulsively in spite of a bright sunny morning.

I heaved myself away from the garden wall of Crosby’s Place just as the gates were opened and two young men in the Gloucester livery rode out, carrying on a loud-voiced conversation from which anyone within earshot might gather that they were bound for Baynard’s Castle with an important message for the duke, and also, in the next day or two, that the young king was to be moved to the royal apartments in the Tower. At any other time, such a titbit of news might have caught my attention, but at that moment, I was interested in no one’s affairs but my own. I walked on slowly, passing under the Bishop’s Gate — merely giving an unresponsive grunt in reply to the gatekeeper’s attempt at conversation — wondering what it was best for me to do. Obviously, I must impart my suspicions to Oswald and his sisters as soon as possible, but would they believe me? And if they didn’t, would they be right to be sceptical? Would it not be better for me to try to discover more definite proof of my suspicions before speaking to them?

It was then I became conscious of the fact that I was still clutching the box of feverfew extract in one hand. I had promised Julian Makepeace to deliver it to Father Berowne on my way back to the Arbour, a good enough excuse, if one was needed, for calling on the priest. Of course, he could well be from home, visiting a member of his flock. .

I experienced another jolt to the pit of my stomach as yet a further memory obtruded. On the day of Celia’s disappearance, when I had questioned Father Berowne, he claimed to have heard the children playing in the garden that morning because he had been on his way to visit one of his parishioners who lived further up the track. I remembered his exact words: ‘A poor, childless widow who has been unwell.’ Yet when Adela and I had gone for our stroll two evenings since, we had come across no other dwelling anywhere near the Arbour in spite of having walked some considerable distance. So what had he been doing in the vicinity of the house? Had he, indeed, even been there? If not, why had he lied? No one had accused him of anything. It was simply one of those unnecessary embellishments of an untruth provoked by a guilty conscience.

This last recollection convinced me even more that my theory was correct: Father Berowne and Henry Maynard were one and the same person. And if only Oswald and his sisters had seen fit to confide in me from the very beginning, I might have reached this conclusion much sooner. I could see why they hadn’t, of course. Selling two innocent children to the Irish slavers was not the sort of admission anyone wanted to make, not even to themselves, and most certainly not to a stranger. Only her secret fear had forced Clemency to speak out in the end.

As I approached St Botolph’s everything lay quiet and still in the morning sun. There seemed to be no sign of life anywhere, although the church door stood open, inviting all those who wished to communicate with God to enter. I went in briefly to return thanks for the solution that I trusted was the answer to my prayers and to beg pardon for doubting that I should receive it. As I was leaving, I sent up a brief admonition to God not to desert me, just in case I should prove to be in any danger.

I knocked on the door of the priest’s house, but there was no reply. I tried twice more, but each time was greeted with silence, so I strolled round to the side of the cottage and the small garden where Father Berowne — for until I was certain of his true identity, I could not think of him by any other name — dug so diligently to produce something green from the stony soil. At the back, out of sight of the road, two pigs grunted at me from their sty, big, ugly brutes that stank to high heaven, while a goat, tethered to its post, regarded me with a pair of evil yellow eyes. An attempt had been made to grow a few herbs, and the vegetables I had noticed on my first visit appeared, if anything, even sallower and more drooping than before. But the thing which really drew my eyes was a patch of freshly turned earth some six feet by three. Just the right size for a grave. .

A hand fell on my shoulder and I jumped. A soft laugh sounded in my ear. ‘Admiring my new seed bed, Master Chapman?’

I spun round. The priest was standing there, smiling at me. I hesitated for a long moment before deciding to take the plunge.

‘Am I addressing Henry Maynard?’ I asked him.