12 - Nine Men Dancing (11 page)

‘I wouldn’t give a groat for anything that rabble down there think!’ Jacquetta declared scornfully. But her eyes had shifted away from mine and refused to look back. ‘And if Tom did kill her,’ she added triumphantly, ‘where has he concealed her body? Because it’s never been found, as you must know.’

‘I didn’t say that
I
believed your nephew murdered Eris Lilywhite,’ I corrected her. ‘I said you did. And in spite of the mystery as to where the body is hidden, you still do.’

‘Nonsense!’ she answered stoutly, then glanced at me curiously. ‘Why don’t you think Tom killed her?’

‘I’m not saying he did or he didn’t. I’m keeping an open mind. But in my experience, things are often not as simple as they seem. On the face of it, allowing for possibility and probability, for motive and the opportunity to commit the crime, your nephew, Tom, appears the most likely person to have done it. But apart from your brother, everyone in this house would have liked to see her dead.’

‘Not liked,’ Jacquetta protested. ‘But … Very well! I agree that, except for Nathaniel, we’re all glad that she’s gone. And I think even my brother is beginning to realize that he might have had a lucky escape. Life is quieter without her.’

‘The old well in the woods – the one belonging to Upper Brockhurst Manor – was searched, so Mistress Lilywhite informed me.’

‘The Brothers’ Well? Yes, that’s so.’ And Jacquetta confirmed Maud’s story. Ned had climbed right down into the well the following morning, using the iron ladder and watched by a group of men from the village, including Father Anselm. The others didn’t bother going down after him, because they could see by peering over the rim that there was nothing there. A foot or two of brackish water, but that was all. ‘The well dried up,’ Jacquetta explained, ‘when, some years after the great plague the villagers of Lower Brockhurst diverted the course of the Draco to flow directly downhill in order to augment their own supply of water, that stream at the bottom of the pasture. I’ve always understood that before the plague, the Draco meandered in a curve through the main street of Upper Brockhurst. But sometime in the latter half of the last century, men from the lower village cut a new straight channel, so that the Draco flowed faster and more efficiently into the stream below, thus giving a better head of water for the mill race.’

I asked, ‘Do you know anything about the murder of two men that took place in the woods around Upper Brockhurst, just before the outbreak of the plague?’

My companion laughed. ‘My word, you have learned a lot about this place in less than twenty-four hours, chapman. I congratulate you. And I thought I was nosy! But in this case, I’m going to disappoint you. All I know is probably what you’ve been told already. Two wellers from Tetbury, who’d dug a well for the Martin brothers, the owners of Brockhurst Hall, were found battered to death in woodland not far away. But the story goes that they hadn’t been robbed. If true, it would seem to have been a motiveless killing. But before anything could be discovered concerning the murders, the plague arrived in Upper Brockhurst and, within weeks, everyone, including the Martins, was dead. But that was all a hundred and something years ago. It has nothing to do with Eris Lilywhite. Has it?’

Jacquetta was looking puzzled, as well she might by this sudden change of direction in my questioning.

She asked again, ‘What has this to do with the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite?’ but got no further before a woman I recognized as Petronelle Rawbone entered the room.

‘Ned and Nathaniel have returned,’ she said. ‘Tom and the boys are with them.’

The words were hardly out of her mouth, when the front door was flung wide on screeching hinges and the Rawbone men surged into the hall on a great tide of energy, all talking at once. A strong smell of ale hung in the air, and it was no surprise to learn that they had all met up with one another in the Roman Sandal. (Presumably, as far as William Bush was concerned, business was business and resentment on his daughter’s behalf did not extend to turning away so much custom.) They were all heatedly debating the truth, or otherwise, of a rumour concerning a murrain of cattle in neighbouring Wales, and the possibility of it spreading across the Severn into Gloucestershire. Jacquetta and Petronelle were inevitably drawn into the conversation, firing off worried questions at their menfolk until Nathaniel roared for quiet.

‘You’re behaving like a lot of hysterical women, the pack of you!’ he shouted. ‘It ain’t likely a disease’ll cross water, but if it does, we’ll deal with it when it happens. And you can be sure that I’m not killing off my sheep for anybody.’

No one was taking any notice of me, so I decided it was time to be on my way. I picked up my pack and tiptoed out into the passage, closing the hall door softly behind me. As I crossed the flagstones to enter the other passage opposite, I glanced to my left. The trapdoor of the cellar was still standing upright, and, with a few strides, I was beside it, crouched on my haunches, staring into the void. A narrow stone staircase disappeared into what would have been pitch darkness had the housekeeper not forgotten to douse the wall cresset she had lit earlier. On a sudden impulse, I dropped my pack and, after a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, descended the well-worn treads.

As cellars go, it was not large; long and low-ceilinged, but very narrow. I soon realized that this was because the farmhouse had been built into the side of a hill and its foundations in the front were lower than those at the back. The ground floor had been levelled, leaving this oddly shaped space beneath it; a space that had been utilized as an undercroft, except that, in this case, there was no access to it from the outside. Logs and smaller pieces of firewood were stacked against the outer wall; some leather bottles, containing, I supposed, more wine, were ranged against the inner; while anything that seemed to be in need of a stitch or a nail by way of repair, had been bundled down there out of sight (and presumably out of mind), a fact that said little for the housewifery and economy of either Petronelle or Jacquetta or Elvina Merryman.

But however much this fact would have been deplored by my wife and former mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, it was not what interested me. I paced the length of the cellar, my eyes fixed on the ground, searching for traces of any disturbance to the beaten-earth floor that might indicate a recently dug grave. But there was too much clutter for me to arrive at any firm conclusion; and I was suddenly aware of voices overhead calling for the housekeeper to bring ale. Hurriedly, I retraced my steps and clambered up out of the cellar just in time to see Elvina disappearing into the hall, demanding irritably, ‘What’s all the noise about? What do you want? Can’t one of you come to find me in a decent, civilized fashion, instead of bawling yourselves hoarse like this?’

I grabbed my pack, stole down the corridor, turned into the other at right angles to it, then headed for a door halfway along and entered the kitchen. Ruth Hodges was still there, putting a pie into a wall-oven and cursing as she burned her fingers, while Hercules, who had been lying resignedly by the hearth, came hurtling towards me, jumping up and barking loudly. I hushed him, found my cudgel and cloak, said my farewells and made my escape from the house before Jacquetta realized my absence, and decided she wanted me back to answer a few of
her
questions.

The afternoon was now some way advanced and the weather had worsened. The distant trees were tossing and billowing, and above them, huge clouds rode like galleons in the storm-tossed sky. Below me, I could see the Lilywhite holding and a woman I thought was Theresa crossing the back yard, battling against the wind, to feed the geese. Below that again, in the valley, the village lay snugly tucked behind its belt of trees, its inhabitants no doubt busy about their work, but eagerly anticipating the evening’s entertainment and the game of Nine Men’s Morris to be played at the alehouse. I must remember that I was expected, or I should once again be in Rosamund Bush’s black books.

But there were some hours yet to nightfall, so I considered what to do in the meantime. Hercules was capering around me, telling me as plainly as he could that he needed exercise, and the evil way in which he was eyeing up the placidly grazing sheep made me anxious to comply with his wishes. So I took the liberty of stowing my pack inside the Rawbones’ cowshed and strode off uphill, across the pasture, to the woods foaming along its crest.

I decided to follow the course of the Draco, and after walking for about half an hour – slow going over rough, thickly wooded terrain, even though the land had levelled out somewhat – I came to the dried-up watercourse, mentioned by Dame Jacquetta, where the stream had once diverted through Upper Brockhurst. Now it flowed downhill in a more or less straight line from somewhere ahead of me, swollen by the recent rains until it had almost breached its banks. The original channel, still vaguely discernible, had filled, over the years, with a mixture of earth and a mulch of dead leaves until it had become very nearly a part of the woodland floor, supporting an ever-increasing growth of scrub and young trees. Whistling to Hercules, I set out to follow its path as best I could.

After walking for another quarter of an hour, I was unsurprised to find myself moving in a gentle curve, in a landscape reminiscent of the previous day, when I had penetrated the remains of Upper Brockhurst Hall. Here and there, I could plainly see the jagged teeth of ruined buildings pushing between the encroaching foliage, giving me notice that men had once lived here, where now only badgers and other woodland creatures were in occupation. In a long-gone village street, that had echoed to the sound of people laughing, talking, singing, there was now nothing but a dry, rustling noise, so faint that it made me starkly aware of the dead weight of silence all around me.

Hercules, tail erect, nose quivering, was searching for any rabbit foolish enough to leave its comfortable burrow for the cold and wet of a miserable, late February day. He had just found a promising hole and was snuffling at it in eager anticipation, when he suddenly stopped and raised his head, ears pricked, his little body tense and troubled.

I stood stock still. ‘What is it, boy?’ I hissed, whispering although I had heard nothing. Then a twig cracked somewhere, as if it had been snapped underfoot, and Hercules let out a whine. Unbidden, a vivid picture, clear and fully-formed, sprang into my mind of two men walking through these self-same woods, pleased with a job well done, the prompt payment they had received for their work jingling in the purses hung from their belts. They were going home after – how long? A month? Six weeks? More? I had no idea of the time needed to sink a well. But whatever length of time it had taken, the wellers, father and son, must have made friends in Upper Brockhurst during the period of their stay. And if the Martin brothers had really been as parsimonious as Maud Lilywhite had described them, they were unlikely to have offered the two men bed and board of an acceptable quality. So the wellers had probably lodged with the villagers, who would have welcomed strangers from the larger community of Tetbury in their midst. (Both the Brockhursts, Upper and Lower, were off the beaten track and news of the outside world would therefore have been slow to reach them.) What proved to be the last weeks of the unsuspecting villagers’ lives were no doubt enhanced by the pair’s presence.

And so father and son had finally set out for home, looking forward to seeing their womenfolk again; happy, relaxed, not thinking of danger until unexpectedly, brutally, it had descended on them from out of the surrounding trees and they were battered to death before they could defend themselves. Had they known why? Had they recognized their attackers? Or had they simply thought – for the short interval of time that they could think – that they had been set upon by footpads? But nothing, according to tradition, had been stolen from them. They had been left to welter in their blood, their money undisturbed in their purses.

It would seem to have been the handiwork of a madman or madmen; in which case, where had the person or persons come from? The village they had just left perhaps? Or from Lower Brockhurst? And if the latter, were the murderers’ descendants still living there, tainted with the same strain of insanity? I found, to my annoyance, that I was shivering, standing in the silent wood, listening now to nothing more sinister than the steady drip-drip of the trees. Hercules had returned to blowing down the rabbit hole, evidently satisfied that the interruption had been a false alarm and intent on digging his way down to visit Master Coney, if Master Coney didn’t have the good manners to come up to visit him.

‘All right!’ I said disgustedly. ‘I understand. You didn’t really hear anything. You were just making a fool of me.’

My nervousness had had the inevitable effect on my bladder, so I was forced to struggle with my laces and relieve myself in the long grasses that now rioted all over what had once been Upper Brockhurst’s main street (although a few patches of cobbles were still visible in places). Then I prised a furious Hercules away from his excavation, tucked his squirming body under my cloak and proceeded to follow the line of the old watercourse until I was back beside the Draco, maybe half a mile further on from where I had left it some fifteen minutes earlier.

I released Hercules and directed my footsteps downhill once more, walking beside the stream as it purled over its stony bed, cutting deeper and ever deeper into the new channel that the men of Lower Brockhurst had dug for it a hundred years ago. No doubt, while they were about it, those men had also knocked down and removed much of the masonry from the upper village, a free source of building material for the lower. (There was always gain to be made out of other people’s misfortune, as I had reason to know only too well. I should not now be the owner of a house in Bristol’s Small Street had it not been for the unlawful death of an innocent and lovely young woman.)

I passed again the spot where the Draco had originally curved out from Upper Brockhurst village, and which marked the end of the new watercourse. The stream plunged onwards now between a strip of scrub and some stunted trees, whose top-most branches made a pattern like the hands of skeletons arched against the gloomy afternoon sky. An easterly wind was rising that drained the landscape of what little colour it had, turning everything to a uniform greenish-grey, and the dank smell of decaying leaves and rotting wood hung in my nostrils. It was as if the year were dying around me instead of being almost within sight of spring.