11 - The Lammas Feast (9 page)

I suppose, in general, he just let memories skull around in that big, empty head of his until they got waterlogged and sank without trace.

‘You should try thinking more often,’ I encouraged him. ‘It’s beneficial for the brain. Go on!’

He eyed me askance – he was suspicious of words he didn’t understand – but continued, ‘The stranger was turning a bit nasty by then. He said something about Master Fairbrother being too far in.’

‘Too far in what?’

‘He didn’t say. Then, at master’s suggestion, they went upstairs. Master told me to get on and open the shop. “Can’t let Overbecks filch all the trade,” he said. So I did. Open the shop, I mean. I didn’t see nor hear any more of the stranger after that.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘I dunno. Master must have let him out by the side door while I was busy serving.’

‘And you told Sergeant Manifold all that you’ve told me?’

He shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

‘Not all of it, no. I didn’t remember all of it. Not about what I’d overheard.’ A broad, slow grin spread across his vacuous face. ‘You’ve started me thinking now.’

Goody Godsmark rose from her stool, closing her hand tightly over the ivory needle case.

‘You’d better be off, Chapman,’ she said. ‘If you’ve started him thinking, I reckon you’ve done enough damage for one morning.’

I laughed, feeling slightly uneasy. I supposed that stirring up that underused organ, Walter’s brain, might have consequences I hadn’t foreseen, but then promptly forgot about it as I realized that I was in possession of information unknown to Richard Manifold. As I walked away from the Godsmarks’ cottage, I debated what to do next. I could either find Richard and tell him what I’d learned that he hadn’t, trying not to gloat over his discomfiture, or I could keep it to myself for the time being and trust that, in due course, Walter would inform the representatives of the law himself.

It was by now getting on towards noon of another very warm day, the relentless sun turning the whole city into a stinking cauldron of heat. The putrid stench from the decomposing animal carcasses and rotting vegetable matter in the open drains, was overpowering, and I decided that what I needed above all else was a drink. As yet, I had sold nothing and was, in fact, worse off than when I left home on account of my gift to Goody Godsmark. If I were to escape Adela’s wrath, I must apply myself to my chosen trade without further delay, but I could do nothing until I had slaked my thirst. I headed for Bristol’s favourite alehouse, known variously to the town’s inhabitants as the Green Lattis, Abyngdon’s and the New Inn. The latter was now its official title, but it had been called by both the former names at one time and another in its long history; names that were still used by people with even longer memories. It was situated behind All Hallows Church in Corn Street, and, in less than ten minutes, I was ensconced at my favourite table near an unshuttered window.

The landlord knew me and placed a pot of ale in front of me before I had even called for it. And at this time of day, the noise was not so deafening that I was unable to hear myself think. Later on, it would be a different story, but for now, I could drink my ale in peace.

Should I tell Richard Manifold of the additional information I had wormed out of Walter Godsmark or not? That was the question. Firstly, what I had learned made my theory that the stranger was a Tudor agent seem more than a probability, almost a certainty. Secondly, it gave weight to Richard’s decision to arrest the man for Jasper’s murder. The stranger would appear to have been threatening the baker, if not actually blackmailing him. What about? Well, if yet another of my guesses were correct, paying money into Henry Tudor’s depleted war coffers seemed the likeliest answer. If Jasper, for whatever reason, had allowed himself to become embroiled with the Lancastrian cause, exposure could have seen him hanged, drawn and quartered for high treason – not a death I would wish on my bitterest enemy. (Whoever devised that method of execution for the first Edward had a nasty, twisted personality that really enjoyed watching people suffer.)

But if Jasper were the one being blackmailed, wouldn’t it be more likely that
he
would have killed the
blackmailer
? The stranger wouldn’t want Jasper dead if there was a possibility of extracting money from him. He wouldn’t want him dead, anyway. Unless, of course, the baker had attacked him first. But that didn’t make sense, either. There had been no sign of a struggle and, judging by the look on his face, Jasper had obviously been taken by surprise when the knife entered his back. So, although the stranger’s attempt to extort money from Jasper explained their argument, it failed, for me at least, to explain the murder. I sighed and took another swig of ale.

Over the rim of my cup I glanced around at the other tables. As I had guessed, the tavern was only half full at that hour of the morning. There were the usual old men who went there every day and were a part of the furniture, and a handful of regular customers who, like me, had dropped in to quench their thirst after working out of doors in the blistering heat. Then there was the inevitable sprinkling of strangers . . .

My eyes suddenly became fixed on a table in one dim corner of the room. Two bulky figures sat there, chins propped on hands, deep in conversation. I stared, and then cursed myself roundly for having forgotten their existence. These were the two ruffians I had encountered yesterday; the pair I thought were watching John Overbecks’s shop, but who, in reality, might have been spying on Jasper.

T
he two men finished their drink and stood up. I hastily lowered my gaze, and, a second or so later, they passed by my table and went out, without even noticing me. How could I have forgotten them? How could they have slipped my mind so completely? Above all, why wasn’t Richard Manifold considering them as suspects for Jasper’s murder? The sooner I saw Richard, and not only confirmed my own suspicions concerning the stranger, but also jogged his memory about the two bravos, the better.

I hurriedly swallowed the rest of my ale, at the same time remembering uneasily how cautious the sergeant had been on the subject of these two men; how vigorously he had protested their innocence. What did he know about them that he was concealing from me? Nothing, of course, in his role of sheriff’s officer, that he did not have a perfect right to hide. All the same . . .

Someone sat down heavily on the stool next to mine, and a hand fell on my shoulder, making it impossible for me to rise.

‘Roger,’ said John Overbecks, ‘I’m glad to have fallen in with you. I wanted to assure you that Jane meant no harm when she took Adam for a ride in his cart this morning. She came home in tears, afraid she had angered you. She said you looked cross. I had no idea she had gone out on her own. She must have escaped while I was with you and Sergeant Manifold. I know she appears a little odd, and, at times, acts even more oddly, but, as I’ve told you before, there’s not an ounce of malice in her nature.’

By this time, my feelings of guilt were threatening to overwhelm me. My face had grown so flushed that I was conscious of beads of sweat trickling down my nose. I gibbered something incomprehensible, but the baker only smiled.

‘No need to apologize,’ he told me. ‘I understand. Now, don’t run away. Stay and have another drink with me. I’m parched after a trudge up to the nunnery.’ And he called to the pot boy for two more stoups of ale.

Much as I wanted to go and find Richard Manifold, I had no wish to affront John Overbecks by an over-hasty departure, so I allowed my beaker to be refilled.

‘You’ve been up to see the Magdalen nuns?’ I queried, unable, on the spur of the moment, to think of anything else to say.

He nodded. ‘One of my hucksters was taken ill this morning, and the bread was urgently required. I didn’t think it fair to ask any of the other women to make the climb up to Saint Michael’s Hill in this heat, so I went myself.’ He took a deep draught of ale and smacked his lips. ‘That’s better. No, that was a lesson I learned when I was soldiering abroad. Never ask subordinates to do anything you’re not prepared to do yourself.’

‘That was a bad time in France,’ I suggested.

‘A vicious time, with ill feeling on both sides. Our glory days were long over. I was twenty when I left England in ’48, and I arrived on the other side of the Channel just as we surrendered Le Mans. A few years earlier, the French had retaken most of Gascony, and we were rapidly losing control of Normandy as well. Within three years, Bordeaux and Bayonne had also been lost, and of all our French possessions, only Calais remained to us. The most disgusting atrocities were perpetrated by both armies. No quarter was expected, none was given. The year following the loss of Le Mans, we sacked Fougères.’ He shuddered. ‘The sights I saw turned my stomach, I can tell you. I even thought of deserting.’

He paused and compressed his lips tightly, as though he found the subject too painful to say anything further. The thought flickered faintly, somewhere on the edges of my mind, that perhaps he
had
deserted, but it sputtered and died almost immediately. John Overbecks, who did not expect others to undertake anything he was not prepared to do himself, was not the sort of man to fail in his duty.

Almost as though he had read my thoughts, he smiled. ‘It’s all right, you’re not talking to one of those cowards who ran away and left his comrades in the lurch.’ He drained his beaker and called for another. ‘By Our Lady, that walk made me dry! I only hope that Ethelreda’s recovered enough for the climb tomorrow. I don’t think I can tackle it again. But at least I was able to have a word with my sister-in-law.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten for the moment that she’s now one of the nuns. Adela and I will probably see her tomorrow evening, at Vespers. Mistress Ford has invited us to be her guests. It’s the Feast of Saint Mary Magdalen,’ I added by way of explanation.

‘So Marion – Sister Jerome, rather – mentioned. But she didn’t suggest that Jane and I go. I suppose because she knows how easily bored and restless her sister becomes when she has to stand still for any length of time.’ He downed the contents of his second beaker in almost one gulp and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Well, I must be off. I’ve left Jane too long already. Burl Hodge’s wife is keeping her company, but she doesn’t like it if I’m absent for more than an hour or so.’

He rose to his feet, but I gripped his wrist, detaining him.

‘Master Overbecks, do you intend letting Jasper’s old living quarters above the bakery?’

He looked down at me, pursing his lips. ‘I haven’t really had time to think about it, lad. It’s all been such a shock. The murder, I mean. I can guess what’s in your mind, though.’ He grimaced sympathetically. ‘But to be honest with you, I think I want to be rid of the entire building. I’ve enough to do with my present business, without taking on another. One of my fellow bakers might like to buy it from me. Or it would make a fine town dwelling if the shop and bakehouse were used as living space, as well.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘It would be more than you could afford, Roger, I’m afraid.’

Sadly, I agreed. Even with my two gold pieces added to every spare penny I had earned so far this summer, it would be beyond my pocket. But just the thought of such a house made me sick with longing; two rooms downstairs and four up would be paradise. But a moment’s reflection sufficed to remind me that a lowly chapman, such as myself, would incur resentment living in such surroundings. I echoed the baker’s sigh.

‘Just a midsummer’s dream,’ I said, and released his arm.

John Overbecks patted my shoulder and took his leave. I stayed where I was for a few moments longer, then bade the landlord good day and went in search of Richard Manifold.

I found him in the Councillors’ Meeting Hall, next to the Tolzey, where the sheriff, as well as the mayor, city bailiffs and councillors, had rooms; rooms, I noted sourly, that were spacious and well appointed. (Those in authority always make themselves comfortable.)

Richard was in one of the ante-rooms, waiting, I presumed, to make a report, either to the sheriff himself, or to one of his deputies. I sat down on the bench beside him and was greeted with a surly frown.

‘What do you want?’

This was not the welcome I had hoped for, but I ignored the frosty atmosphere and smiled benignly. I put my first question: ‘Was the stranger who had called on Jasper Fairbrother an agent of Henry Tudor?’

He jumped. ‘Who told you that?’ he barked.

‘No one. I put two and two together and thought I’d made four. But I suppose,’ I added, pretending to doubt my own ability, ‘I might have made five instead.’

Richard lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘No. There’s nothing wrong with your addition, unfortunately. I have reason to believe that the man’s a Lancastrian spy. But don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind! I know that big mouth of yours!’

I felt this was most unjust and said so. ‘Have you caught him yet?’ I added nastily. ‘You said you were sending a posse in pursuit.’

‘And so I did, an hour or more ago. Twenty men from around the town, with Jack Gload and Pete Littleman in charge.’ I snorted. He ignored it. ‘But this fellow had at least four hours start of them, if he left the city at dawn, as soon as the gates were open.’

‘But he’s on foot. They’re mounted,’ I objected. After a moment, I asked, ‘In which direction are they searching?’

He laughed shortly.

‘Well, of course, our man could be anywhere. But as you claimed to have seen him on Saint Michael’s Hill yesterday evening, I instructed Pete and Jack to try that road first. That doesn’t mean to say,’ he added, ‘that our fugitive hasn’t gone in some entirely different direction.’

That might be the case if he returned to Bristol after I saw him. But I don’t believe he did. Richard, my guess is that he’s a great deal more than a mere few hours ahead of your posse. I think he’s been travelling all night.’

The sergeant’s frown became a scowl. ‘You don’t believe the Breton killed Jasper Fairbrother, then?’