11 - The Lammas Feast (24 page)

At last, shortly before dawn, with the watch shouting four in the morning, Brother Nicodemus took his leave, while Adela and I fell into bed, exhausted by our labours and with my wife moaning over the pile of extra washing with which she had been burdened. When we woke again, it was fully daylight. We had overslept, worn out by the events of the night, and I guessed that the world had been up and about its business for several hours. Adam was screaming to be changed and, as usual, fed, the dog was lying on my chest, gazing soulfully into my face, and Philip was sitting up in bed, holding his head and groaning.

Our uninvited guest pushed aside a bowl of oatmeal and shuddered at the sight of my pickled herring.

‘Just a cup of hot water, that’s all I need,’ he begged Adela.

‘And all you deserve,’ I admonished him. ‘What Jeanne will say when she hears of your behaviour, I dread to think.’

‘And who’s going to tell her? You?’ Philip demanded loudly, then wished he hadn’t, nursing his head and retching.

Adela fetched him a bucket, her face registering all the disapproval she was feeling, but refused to put into words. Philip gave a weak smile of thanks and repaid her by refraining from actually being sick.

I relented. ‘All right. I promise she won’t hear a word from me when next we meet up. But for goodness’ sake, man, pull yourself together and stop brawling with the other stallholders. They’re doing you no harm.’

‘All those north-country nobodies,’ was the truculent answer. ‘Think they’re as good as Londoners! They’re not! Got to be taught a lesson!’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I exclaimed in exasperation. ‘Is that what it’s all about? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! I thought Bristol men were bad enough, believing themselves to be God’s special gift to the world. Now, it seems that Londoners are worse.’

He had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, fingering his right eye, which was swollen and bloodshot. Adela rose and went to her medicine shelf at the back of the cottage, returning with a flask of lotion made from the crushed leaves of the houseleek, which she placed in front of him, together with a bowl.

‘Bathe your eye with that,’ she instructed our guest. ‘It’ll soothe it. And you’d better have some of this for your stomach.’ From a small pot, she spooned a mixture of limestone and chalk into a beaker and then mixed it with water from the jug. ‘Drink it!’ she ordered, as Philip grimaced.

I could not suppress a shudder of sympathy. She had administered it to me on several occasions when my belly had been disturbed, and it was vile. If Philip had been married to my wife, he would never voluntarily have risked an upset stomach.

‘You’ll stay with us for a few days,’ I said. ‘At least, until Friday, when our two elder children return from their grandmother’s.’

But Philip, trusting soul, had just swallowed a hearty mouthful of the lime and chalk concoction, and was spluttering and coughing as though he were about to vomit. When at last he recovered, he shook his head and said, ‘No thanks. If I’m going to be murdered, I’d rather take my chance at the fair than be poisoned by you and your goodwife here. No offence, Adela, my love, and don’t think I’m not grateful for all you’ve done for me! And now I know where you live, Roger, I’ll certainly come to see you both again before the fair is over. I’d have done so before this if I’d realized your cottage was so near at hand.’

‘And we’d certainly have visited your stall if we’d known you were in Bristol.’ I clapped him on the back, making him wince and raise a hand to his throbbing head. ‘Whereabouts are you?’

‘Prime site,’ he boasted. ‘Next to the priory gate. Some very good stock, I can assure you. Jeanne sorted it out herself. Some of the clothes are nearly new. You and Adela could set yourselves and the children up for the winter at extremely reasonable prices.’

‘We’ll see what you have,’ I promised. ‘If Jeanne really did make the selection––’

I was interrupted by a knock at the door. This was not the timid rapping of Brother Nicodemus or the tentative, almost apologetic tapping of a neighbour, but a loud, self-confident, self-assertive thump undoubtedly made by somebody’s not inconsiderable fist. Adela, who had turned her back on Philip Lamprey in order to feed Adam, glanced over her shoulder in surprise. Hercules, it goes without saying, promptly went berserk, clawing at the door and barking fit to burst.

‘For God’s sake, shut the bloody dog up!’ our guest entreated, clutching once more at his aching head.

I moved Hercules unceremoniously out of the way, unbolting and unlatching the door before swinging it open. The sight of Richard Manifold, flanked by Jack Gload and Peter Littleman, standing four-square on my doorstep, did not altogether surprise me – the self-important knocking, if it had heralded anything, had heralded officialdom – but what he could want at this hour of the morning, advanced though it admittedly was, was beyond me.

I was about to invite him and his henchmen inside, but he stopped me by laying a hand on my shoulder.

‘Roger Chapman,’ he said. ‘You are under arrest for the murder of Dame Cicely Ford.’

T
he only words to penetrate my consciousness were ‘murder’ and ‘Cicely Ford’. Even so, I had difficulty in connecting them, and it was a few seconds before they made any kind of sense. I can vaguely remember brushing Richard Manifold’s hand from my shoulder as if it had been no more than a fly and retreating backwards inside the cottage. And all the while, a black tide of horror was slowly rising within me as the sergeant’s meaning began to sink in.

‘Are – are you telling me that Mistress F–Ford has been murdered?’ I stammered at last. ‘When? How? Who by? Who would want to harm such a good, sweet, gentle creature?’ The first stirrings of anger began to mingle with my disbelief. ‘Whoever killed her deserves stringing up from the nearest tree.’

Richard Manifold, who had followed me indoors, was staring at me as though I were a crazy man. Jack Gload and Peter Littleman were also looking at me with dropped jaws, and the former sniggered uncomfortably. Adela came to stand beside me, putting a hand on my arm, and it was then that I became aware that she was trembling. When I glanced round at her to discover the cause, I could see that her face was chalk white.

‘Roger,’ she whispered. ‘Didn’t you hear what Sergeant Manifold said? He’s accusing
you
of Cicely’s murder.’

I laughed, thinking it a bad joke, then memory stirred. ‘You are under arrest for the murder of Dame Cicely Ford.’ It was my turn to stare as though Richard had taken leave of his senses.

‘
Why
are you arresting me?’ I demanded furiously. ‘On what grounds?’

Richard cleared his throat portentously. ‘On the grounds,’ he announced, ‘that you were observed by a witness approaching Mistress Ford’s cottage at two o’clock this morning. You, or someone closely resembling you,’ he added with a little less certainty.

I heard Adela draw a sobbing breath of pure relief. At the same moment, a wrathful Philip Lamprey, his hangover for the present completely forgotten, rose from his chair, mouthing a string of obscenities which informed the three law officers, in no uncertain terms, what they could do with their accusation.

‘Arrest that man!’ Richard instructed his lieutenants.

But Jack Gload and Peter Littleman, in the face of a small, extremely angry man brandishing a stool at them, and daring them to do their worst, were reluctant to obey the order.

‘Behave yourself, Philip,’ I commanded him. ‘This matter, as you well know, can easily be resolved without you landing yourself in the Bridewell on a charge of assault.’ I turned back to Richard Manifold, trying hard to concentrate on one thing at a time and not to be distracted by the medley of grief-stricken thoughts churning around in my head. ‘Sergeant, either go yourself or send one of your men to Saint James’s Priory and question Brother Nicodemus concerning my whereabouts at two o’clock this morning. He will tell you that, at his request, I was rescuing my friend here from the consequences of a drunken fight. Master Lamprey’ – I indicated Philip – ‘had tied himself to a pillar of Lord Robert’s tomb and was refusing to budge unless I could be found and brought to him. Father Prior was also present, and he will corroborate Brother Nicodemus’s word if you deem it necessary. The monks were waiting to say Vigils and could not proceed until I arrived to cut my friend loose and bring him home with me.’

‘And what is more, Sergeant,’ Adela interrupted in a voice that chilled like ice, ‘Brother Nicodemus accompanied my husband back here and remained with us until the watch were calling
four
o’clock. I heard them as he left.’ I could tell that she would not soon forgive her former admirer for causing her such a fright.

The expression on Richard Manifold’s face was a joy to behold. Frustration, bewilderment and the fear of having made a fool of himself were mixed in equal proportions. He desperately wanted to dismiss our story as some sort of fabrication, but the mention of Father Prior and Brother Nicodemus was sufficient to convince him of its truth. Despatching Jack Gload to the priory was nothing more than the formal check his superiors would expect of him.

While we awaited Jack Gload’s return, I took pity on Richard and motioned him to a chair. It was on the tip of my tongue to offer him some ale, but I could tell from the look on Adela’s face that the suggestion would not be well received. She was still white with shock. Philip, too, was at his most aggressive.

I took a seat opposite the sergeant and folded my arms across my chest.

‘Perhaps if you are now convinced of my innocence, you’d be willing to answer some questions,’ I said. He grunted sullenly, but I took it for assent. ‘First, how and when was Mistress Ford murdered?’

‘During the night sometime. She was smothered.’ As the stranger had been.

‘And who accuses me of this wanton crime?’

I thought I could guess, and was therefore unsurprised when Richard grudgingly admitted, ‘Sister Jerome. The nuns had finished Vigils and she had gone outside, as is her custom – or so she claims – for a breath of fresh air before returning to her cell. She saw someone – a man – walking up Saint Michael’s Hill, but although it was moonlight, she couldn’t see his face, because he wore his hood pulled forward over his head. She says she watched the man for a moment or two, then turned to re-enter the nunnery. Before doing so, however, she glanced back, and, to her surprise, the man had vanished. She did pause to wonder where he might have gone, but, being tired, dismissed the incident from her mind.’

‘And she insists that I was this man?’

The sergeant shifted on his stool and refused to meet my eyes.

‘Not exactly. She merely said it was someone of your height and build. She didn’t accuse you directly.’

‘And you were willing to arrest Roger on such flimsy evidence?’ Adela demanded scornfully.

Richard flushed a dull red, stung by her contemptuous tone.

‘No, of course not! You don’t understand. There were other circumstances that pointed to Master Chapman’s guilt.’

‘What? Tell me what!’

‘Wait a moment, sweetheart,’ I pleaded, holding out my hand to her. ‘You’re going too fast. Let’s take it a step at a time, shall we? Sergeant, who discovered that Mistress Ford had been murdered, and when?’

‘Sister Jerome went to visit her at first light this morning. Apparently, she often does, just to make sure that her friend has survived the night unharmed. Instead, she found Mistress Ford’s dead body. Sister Jerome ran to inform the Mother Superior, and to obtain leave of absence. Then she came for me.’

My wife had kept quiet for long enough. ‘And on the strength of Sister Jerome’s suspicion that it
might
be Roger – not that it
was,
mark you, but that it
might
be – you came, not to question him, but to take him into custody!’ she fumed.

‘That’s what I call jumping to conclusions,’ Philip Lamprey put in, adding his mite to the already seething cauldron of anger and mistrust. ‘Cause a riot in London, that would!’

‘No!’ Richard Manifold banged his fist on the table and jumped to his feet with such violence that his accusers hastily retreated a step or two. ‘What do you take me for? An incompetent idiot who doesn’t know his job?’

He knew very well what Adela took him for: a jealous man trying his best to make her a widow once again. I could see that the knowledge angered him, that he felt himself misjudged, and for the first time in quite a while, I began to warm towards him. I motioned to my wife and Philip to be quiet.

‘Why did you come to arrest me, Sergeant?’ I asked in a gentler tone. ‘You obviously had your reasons. What motive did you think I could possibly have for killing Mistress Ford?’

Just at that moment, the cottage door opened and Jack Gload reappeared, Brother Nicodemus twittering at his heels.

‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ the latter exclaimed nervously after I had rescued him from Hercules’s eager attentions. ‘What’s all this about? What are you accusing Roger Chapman of, Sergeant? Is it true that Mistress Ford is dead? Murdered, this man tells me. Oh dearie, dearie me! I don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. How unlucky that family has been!’

Richard Manifold waited patiently until the monk had run out of breath, then sat Brother Nicodemus down on the stool he had himself just vacated and explained everything as quickly and as succinctly as he could.

Brother Nicodemus promptly confirmed my alibi with a wealth of superfluous detail that we could all have done without. ‘And what’s more, Father Prior will confirm my story,’ he concluded triumphantly. ‘Ask me any question you wish, Sergeant. You won’t catch me out!’

But Richard Manifold had no desire to catch him out. He had no doubt at all that both the monk and I were telling the truth. He just wanted to end an embarrassing situation as swiftly as possible. Besides, if I were not Cicely Ford’s murderer, who was? Instead of a case that was over almost before it had begun, he had a long, and maybe fruitless, enquiry ahead of him.

He turned and looked glumly at me, answering my question.