Wheel of Fate

NINE

Oswald had pointed out a shop on the corner of Foster Lane and Cheapside where the latter divided, the left-hand fork becoming Paternoster Row and the right running into the Shambles. In spite of its closeness to the butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses, with their accompanying stench of blood and rotting entrails, the silversmith’s seemed to be prosperous enough and attracting a high-class trade. It made me glad that I had followed Adela’s advice and worn one of the two new suits of clothes provided by Richard of Gloucester’s bounty for my journey to France the preceding autumn. Consequently, having tied the horse to a nearby post, I entered the shop confident that I looked my best in brown woollen hose, a pale green tunic adorned with silver-gilt buttons and a brown velvet hat sporting a fake jewel on its upturned brim.

‘I’ve never seen you so smart,’ my wife had said admiringly as I stood in the middle of our bedchamber earlier that morning while she had made final adjustments to the set of the tunic across my broad shoulders. But my sympathies had been with Elizabeth and Nicholas, convulsed by silent laughter, and with Adam who, upon coming into the room, had asked where his father was.

The ground floor of the three-storey building was part shop, for the display of finished goods, and part workshop, where the apprentices worked the bellows and stoked the furnace and the master craftsman, with his two assistants, fashioned the molten silver into cups and crucifixes, bracelets and necklaces, rings and buttons and all the other products of the silversmith’s art. They glanced up briefly as I entered, but did not pause to acknowledge me, leaving that to the well-dressed gentleman seated just inside the door, who rose to greet me with a large, ham-like hand and an ingratiating smile.

‘My dear sir! And what may I interest you in on this fine Mayday morning? Something for your lady, perhaps? A trinket, a token of your affection? This ring, maybe, in the shape of two clasped hands?’

I had no difficulty in recognizing Adrian Jollifant from Adela’s description of him; solidly built without being fat, fair hair turning grey, blue eyes in a round face and exuding an air of wealth and self-consequence that would not have been out of place in some of the highest in the land.

He grew impatient. ‘Well sir, and what will it be?’ Then he changed his tune. ‘Of course, I understand. You are a stranger to London. You stand amazed at the quality and variety of my goods. Take your time! Take your time! I can wait.’

The man was a pompous idiot, that was plain, but one, I had no doubt, who could turn nasty if things did not go his way. I had met his sort before and always found them unpleasant characters. The trouble was that, in my usual careless fashion, I had failed to work out beforehand exactly how I should approach him. His desire to buy the Arbour was not, strictly speaking, my business, and I could hardly ask him outright if he had murderous inclinations towards the Godsloves. But if he did, I might only make matters worse for them by claiming to be acting on their behalf. I cursed myself, as I had so often done in the past, for my lack of forethought.

I decided to play the innocent. As he had already decided that I was not a Londoner — my clothes could not be quite as fashionable as I had thought them — my role would be the country bumpkin, overawed by everything about me. I let my jaw drop a little and exaggerated my West Country accent.

‘I. . I wanted to buy summat fer my wife, zir, and was told to come here as you had the best goods in Cheapside. But. . I dunno. I don’ think I could manage anything I can see here.’

Master Jollifant preened himself. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure if we try hard enough, we can find something within your means.’ The condescending bastard! ‘May I ask who recommended me?’ He smirked. ‘It could be almost anyone, I suppose.’

‘Oh yes. Quite a number of people mentioned your name,’ I said, taking my cue from him. ‘That little ring you showed me, ’tis pretty now. How much would you be askin’ fer it?’

He named a price, obviously expecting me to reject it out of hand, and looked disconcerted when I paid up without demur. (My family and I had lived free at the Arbour for the past sennight, and I had had a profitable few weeks before my return to Bristol, so I was well able to afford it.) While he packed the ring into a small wooden box for me, I continued to stare reverently about me, trying to appear suitably impressed.

‘I can see you’re a gen’leman of means, zir,’ I remarked in a hushed whisper. ‘You mun live in a gert big house, I reckon.’

Immediately, an expression of keen dissatisfaction distorted his features. ‘As a matter of fact I don’t,’ he snapped. For a moment I could see him struggling against the indiscretion of confiding in a stranger, but in the end indignation and anger won. ‘I ought to, but no!’ He smacked the little box down on the counter in front of me and continued, ‘My old family home has been filched from me by an unprincipled rogue of a lawyer.’

‘Indeed?’ I forced myself to appear goggle-eyed with interest. ‘How did he come to steal it from you, zir?’

‘We-ell!’ The silversmith had the grace to look momentarily embarrassed before venom and spite took over, plunging him into a story of double-dealing and deliberate obstruction which had only the smallest relation to the truth. I could see that he was obsessed by his grievance to a dangerous degree; that long nurturing had turned it from a mild irritation into what he deemed to be a major injustice. But would he do murder, and multiple murder at that, to get his own way? The fanatical gleam in his eyes and the vicious thinning of his lips suggested that he might.

Clutching the ring in its little box, I left the shop, promising to call again. I was just about to untether Old Diggory, at the same time watching the turmoil that is Cheapside on a busy spring morning without really taking any of it in, when someone spoke my name and a hand was laid on my arm.

‘Roger? Is it really you after all these years?’

I turned quickly to find myself confronting a fashionably dressed woman whose painted face was considerably more raddled than on either of the two previous occasions when our paths had crossed. For a moment I was nonplussed, then recognition dawned.

‘Mistress Napier,’ I said with a polite bow. ‘As lovely as ever.’

She flushed. ‘You always did have a cruel tongue, Roger. I’m fully aware that time has not dealt kindly with me. You, on the other hand, appear to be as handsome and certainly more prosperous than heretofore.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ I told her. ‘And how is Master Napier faring nowadays?’

She gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Gregory? Oh, he’s been in his grave these three years past, praise be!’ The thin, carmined lips twisted into a smile. ‘The house in Paternoster Row is all mine now, as is the shop. With a coronation in the offing, I’m expecting to do extremely well in the next month or two.’ The sudden pealing of bells from St Paul’s and half a dozen other nearby churches drowned out her voice for several moments, but as soon as she was able to make herself heard again, she said, ‘It’s dinnertime. Why not come and share mine? There’s a stable around the corner where you can take your horse.’

I hesitated for perhaps a second or two, but then agreed. Paternoster Row was near at hand, whereas to ride back to the Arbour would take some time. She smiled, laying long-nailed fingers on my proffered arm.

I had first met Ginèvre Napier eight years earlier while investigating the mysterious disappearance of two children from their home in Totnes, in Devon, and had encountered her again three years later while enquiring into a case of apparent murder by a cousin of the late King Edward’s mistress, Jane Shore. I had not much liked her then, nor did I now, but it occurred to me that she might know something about Adrian Jollifant that could be useful.

The parlour of the house in Paternoster Row was much as I remembered it. (In fact I was surprised at just how much I could remember.) The ceiling beams, once aglow with red and gold paint, were faded now and the wall tapestries had lost their pristine freshness. But the armchairs and the table, fashioned from the finest oak, and the corner cupboard, with its opulent display of gold and silver, were still the same, as was the candelabra with its many tinkling filigree pendants. Ginèvre waved me to a chair and told one of the servants to bring dinner as quickly as possible.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,’ she murmured, seating herself opposite me. Her foot brushed against one of mine under the table. I conquered the urge to withdraw it and returned her smile, although half-heartedly. She then utterly discomposed me by laughing out loud and saying, ‘All right, Roger, let’s dispose of the pretence that you like me and you can tell me exactly why you accepted my invitation to dinner.’

When I had stumbled through a few disclaimers at this devastatingly forthright speech — disclaimers which she neither believed nor wanted — I told her as briefly as possible what I was doing in London, including the reason for my being there in the first place, and finished by asking her what she knew of Adrian Jollifant.

Ginèvre considered this while the maid was serving us with the first course, a shrimp soup flavoured with garlic, and eventually gave her measured response to the question.

‘He’s a man with an obsession,’ she said, ‘but I imagine a smart young fellow like you has already worked that out for himself. Would he be capable of murdering an entire family in order to satisfy that obsession? Then my answer to that would have to be yes, I think he probably might well be.’ She drank some soup, her expression thoughtful. ‘A few years ago,’ she went on, ‘when his first wife died unexpectedly, there was a good deal of whispering among the other residents of the Cheap that she had died very opportunely, it being well known that Adrian and a certain sprightly young widow who lived in Muggle Street — Monkswell Street, if you prefer its proper name — were more than nodding acquaintances. There was no proof, mind you, that these rumours were anything more than malicious gossip, but it’s true that his mourning was of the briefest. A little more than three months after the first Mistress Jollifant’s death, the second was queening it around the shop and decking herself out in the best wares that it had to offer.’ The thin, painted lips sneered. ‘I’ve never seen a woman so loaded down with necklaces and other ornaments. A silly creature with no taste; no idea of when enough is enough.’

I finished my soup and leant back in my chair. ‘That was delicious,’ I complimented her. ‘You have an excellent cook. But returning to Master Jollifant, I was told that he is not the owner of the shop; that it belongs to his father who has retired.’

Ginèvre nodded, laying down her spoon and leaving at least half the soup in the bowl, too affectedly ladylike to drink it all.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but that’s another cause for talk. The old man is rarely, if ever, seen. It is presumed that he lives on the top floor of the house, but no one knows for certain. At one time, he was a popular and well-known figure around Cheapside, even after he retired.’ She rang a little silver bell and the maidservant reappeared to clear the dirty dishes before bringing in the next course, braised veal in a white wine sauce. (If this had originally been intended as a meal for one, it was difficult to understand why my hostess was not as fat as a sow instead of the near emaciated figure she presented.) ‘But of late, there has been no sighting of him, not even at the top floor window overlooking the street.’

I tucked into my veal with relish. ‘So, what do people think has happened to the old man?’ I asked.

Ginèvre shrugged. ‘They don’t know. There’s gossip, of course, but then there always is. Some fools whisper that he’s been done away with, but what would be the point of that? If Adrian wants to be master of the shop, he needs it to be known that his father is dead. There could be no point in doing things in secret.’

I agreed. ‘And what do you think?’

She laughed. ‘Me? Oh, I mind my own business.’

‘But you must have an opinion,’ I pressed her.

‘I think the explanation is probably much simpler. I think the old man is ill, confined to bed. Adrian Jollifant has never encouraged his neighbours to probe into his affairs, which he keeps to himself — with one exception!’

‘The fact that he believes he has a right to the Arbour?’

‘Yes. This house, which you tell me now belongs to these relatives of your wife, that is his abiding grievance. Obsession is perhaps the better word, as I said. He is not rational on the subject. He speaks as though it has somehow been stolen from him instead of being the present owners’ by legal purchase.’

I broke a hunk off the fine white loaf placed in the middle of the table and began mopping up my gravy. ‘And this is a man,’ I said thickly without waiting to empty my mouth, ‘whom his neighbours believe might have killed his first wife? I agree with you about his father. To do away with him and not produce a body would be to defeat his object. Nevertheless, people seem to believe Master Jollifant capable of murder.’

Ginèvre rang the bell again. This time, when the dirty plates had been removed, wine and dishes of nuts, raisins and last autumn’s little sweet apples were placed before us.

‘I suppose you could say that almost anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances,’ she answered judiciously, pouring wine into two fine glass goblets. (The goldsmith’s shop was certainly thriving as well as it had done in her late husband’s day. But then, I had always thought her a shrewd woman with a clever head on her shoulders.) ‘But if you want my own opinion, I would say yes, I think Adrian Jollifant more capable of it than most.’

‘Because of this obsession of his?’

‘Oh, certainly. Anyone with such an overwhelming belief that something belongs to him by rights and who feels himself robbed of those rights, is irrational enough to believe he is justified in using any means at his disposal to achieve his ends.’

I drank my wine in silence, mulling over what Ginèvre had said. It made sense. But whether it meant that the silversmith actually had resorted to killing members of the Godslove family one by one was a different matter. Why would he bother murdering Reynold Makepeace, who had no interest in the Arbour and had never lived there? But for that one fact, I might have been inclined to believe that I had found my killer. In the circumstances, however, I could not be sure and I decided that it was time for me to pay another visit to Bucklersbury to see if Julian Makepeace had returned from his visit to Southampton.

As soon as I decently could, therefore, I thanked Ginèvre for an excellent dinner and excused myself on the grounds of having a commission to execute for Adela.

‘And the present from Master Jollifant’s shop?’ she queried with a lift of her plucked eyebrows, nodding towards the little box which I had placed on the table beside me. ‘Something to keep your wife sweet and allay her suspicions still further?’ She smiled a fraction too widely, and I noticed for the first time that one of her front lower teeth was missing while another was rotten and black. ‘Does she have real cause for her misgivings, Roger? During the two brief periods of our former acquaintance, I always felt that you might prove to be an unreliable husband. And, believe me, I know what I’m talking about having been married to Gregory.’

I felt the colour flood my face and silently cursed this telltale sign. But I bluffed it out. I was not admitting Ginèvre Napier any further into my confidence. I had been a fool to tell her as much as I had done already.

‘Adela and I love one another,’ I said flatly, rising to my feet, but perfectly aware, as my hostess was herself, that this was no answer to her question.

She accepted it, however, as all she was likely to get and rang the bell yet again for the maid to bring me my hat. But I wasn’t to escape that easily, and when I had put the hat on, she came to stand close to me, pretending to adjust it. I could smell the wine on her breath and felt the slight pressure of her thighs against mine. But thankfully she did not attract me, and I could see by the suddenly hostile glint in her eyes that she knew it.

‘Well, if I can be of any further service to you, my dear,’ she said coldly, stepping back and extending her hand, ‘please don’t hesitate to call on me, either here or at the shop.’ She was not an easy woman to discourage. ‘Promise!’

I promised, gallantly kissing her proffered hand, but I gave a long sigh of relief once I stood outside in Paternoster Row and heard her door close behind me. I did not like Ginèvre Napier, but neither could I regret the meeting. I had learned some valuable information concerning one of my suspects that I probably could not have obtained any other way.

I realized that I was feeling rather dizzy: my illness had taken its toll and I was not yet as fit as I thought myself. Nevertheless, I refused to give in to such weakness. I resolutely straightened my shoulders, fetched Old Diggory, now watered and fed at my expense, made my way back along Cheapside as far as the Great Conduit and turned into Bucklersbury. Mid-morning trading was at its height, carts rattling over the cobbles, street traders bawling their wares, blue-coated apprentices trying — sometimes physically — to entice passers-by into their masters’ shops, women, baskets on their arms, pausing to chat with friends and acquaintances. It was London at its busiest, and yet, this particular noonday, there was something subdued about everyone’s demeanour. Conversation was earnest and there were no sudden bursts of laughter, no light-hearted banter, no cheery waving and shouting from one side of the street to the other. The news from Northampton was plainly the main topic of discussion and people’s looks were grave, even bewildered, as they tried to make sense of it.

I knocked on the door of Julian Makepeace’s shop, having once more tied up the horse, and it was answered by the same buxom young creature as before. This time, however, she appeared wider awake and there was a sparkle in her eyes that had not been there previously. I guessed I was in luck: the apothecary had returned.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she smiled. ‘I wondered if you’d come back. I’ve told the master about you. Wait there and I’ll go and tell him you’re here.’

After a few moments’ delay, the rustle of an apothecary’s gown heralded Julian Makepeace’s arrival and the man himself stood before me. I should have known him anywhere for Reynold’s brother. Indeed, although I judged him a year or so younger, he was the identical stocky build, had the same bright hazel eyes and thinning brown hair and exuded a similar warmth and friendliness that reached out to embrace all the world.

‘Master Chapman?’ He held out his hand. ‘Naomi told me you had called and that your visit had something to do with my brother’s death.’ He frowned, his face clouding over. ‘Or did she misunderstand?’ He smiled tenderly. ‘A sweet soul, but not the brightest of girls.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She understood me well enough. May I come in and explain?’

‘Yes, of course you may.’ He held the door open for me to pass inside. ‘Pardon me saying so, but you don’t look too well.’ He ushered me through the shop and into a private parlour behind, indicating a chair. ‘Sit there, sir, while I prepare you a reviving draught.’ And he hurried away on his mission of mercy, returning after a short space of time with a glass of some green liquid in his hand. ‘Drink this,’ he ordered. ‘It should refresh you.’

It tasted strongly of mint, a flavour I am not partial to, but it did the trick. Within a few moments I was able to sit up straight and hand back the glass with a smile.

‘A remarkable concoction,’ I said. ‘What was in it? Apart, of course, from mint?’

Julian Makepeace laughed. ‘Come, Master Chapman! You don’t expect a man to give away all his trade secrets, do you? Now, what did you want to see me about? Something to do with my brother’s death, I gather. But that was two years ago and there was no secret about it. A taproom brawl at the Voyager, and my poor Reynold was unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle of it.’

‘Could you — would you — be kind enough to tell me exactly what happened? If you’ll bear with me, I’ll explain my reason for asking later.’

The apothecary hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Why not? There was nothing extraordinary in it. It’s what I said, a most unlucky accident.’ He got up and went to the door, calling to his housekeeper to bring a jug of ale and two beakers before coming back and resuming his seat again. ‘During the past few years, this whole area around Bucklersbury has, most unhappily, become far seedier than it used to be. The tenements in the building known as the Old Barge, at the Walbrook end of the street, have fallen into the hands of a rougher kind of tenant as former inhabitants have died off and the rooms been re-let. Moreover, word of the Voyager’s reputation for good food and ale spread, and in a way Reynold’s success as a landlord contributed to his downfall. Foreign sailors, dockers, began walking up from the wharves to sample what he had to offer and bringing their uncouth habits with them. There was, of course, nothing my brother could do about it. A hostelry is there for everyone’s enjoyment and trade was certainly brisk. Apart from anything else, Reynold couldn’t afford to turn away the custom.’

At this point, the young girl called Naomi entered with our ale and beakers on a tray. She gave me a provocative wink which she made no attempt to conceal, but Julian Makepeace only smiled indulgently and patted her rump with a loving hand, telling her she was a minx and sending her on her way. As he poured the ale, I asked, ‘What happened to Landlord Makepeace’s wife? I seem to remember that when I first met him, five years back, he was married.’

Julian handed me a beaker. ‘You’re quite right, but my sister-in-law died of the plague one summer. . oh. . I couldn’t say exactly when. I’m only thankful she didn’t live to know of my brother’s miserable end. Now, where was I?’

I sipped my excellent ale. ‘You were saying that the customers of the Voyager were not what they had once been.’

‘Yes. There’s not much more to tell. There had been a fight or two in the taproom on various occasions between some of the foreigners and the locals, but only fisticuffs, a few knocks and blows. And if you knew Reynold at all well, you’d know that he wouldn’t stand for a disorderly house. He and his tapster soon broke up such brawls with a few well-placed blows of their own. But the evening he died, it was different. A couple of Genoese sailors, newcomers to the Voyager, drew knives on one another. The quarrel grew nasty, terrifying such women as were present, and Reynold decided he must stop the fight before anyone was seriously hurt. Foolishly, he sent the tapster to summon the Watch while he tried single-handedly to prevent murder being done.’ Julian broke off, his lips quivering. He was forced to wait a moment or two while he got his emotion under control, then finished. ‘Unfortunately, murder was done, but it was his own.’

Silence ensued. Somewhere in the house, I could hear Naomi singing, a bright, popular street ditty of the moment, while she went about her work. I reached out and laid a hand on Julian’s wrist. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. The trite little phrase had never sounded so inadequate. I added, ‘I liked your brother as much as any man I’ve ever met.’

My companion nodded. ‘Everyone liked him,’ he responded huskily. He remained lost in thought for a moment, then asked, ‘So what else is it you want to know?’

I hesitated to cause him further distress, but my question needed an answer. ‘Was there a suggestion at the time — any suggestion, however slight — that Landlord Makepeace’s death might not have been an accident?’

Julian looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

I cleared my throat. ‘Was there any hint. .? Did any of the onlookers get the impression that the two sailors might. . well, might have been paid to kill your brother? That their quarrel was faked in any way?’

The apothecary was frankly bemused. ‘Faked?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘No, of course it wasn’t faked! Why do you ask such a stupid question? What is all this about?’

‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I’ve upset you. Let me explain.’

‘I should be glad if you would. If you can,’ he answered coldly. But by the time I had finished my explanation, Julian’s attitude had grown less frosty. ‘What an extraordinary tale,’ he said slowly. ‘Naturally, I know the Godsloves. Four of them are my stepbrothers and — sisters, and two my half-siblings, but neither Reynold nor myself ever had anything much to do with them. I did inform them when Reynold died, but they meant very little to us, you see. We never lived with them. We were never part of their family. After our mother met and married Morgan Godslove — she met him while he was here in London on business — and went away to Bristol, Reynold and I went to live with our grandmother in Candlewick Street. We were informed, of course, when our half-brother and — sister were born and also of our mother’s death six years after her marriage, but none of it meant very much to us. We had lost touch with her by then. Members of the family, particularly Martin and Celia, did come to visit us when they moved to London — that would be. . oh. . about twenty-three, twenty-four years ago — but, as I say, we were never close. I knew that my half-brother had died, but not in such a fashion. Maybe I was told, but I was still mourning Reynold — I suppose I still am — and it didn’t sink in. Last autumn, you say?’ He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘How odd,’ he said, ‘that both my brother and half-brother should have died violently within such a short time of one another.’