12 - Nine Men Dancing (30 page)

Theresa frowned her down. ‘He’s admitted that. So, tell us again what you think happened,’ she encouraged me. ‘How did the Roman bowls come into the Church’s possession?’

I was nothing loath to give my theory another airing.

‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that the wellers who were working for Humphrey and Tobias Martin found the two chalices whilst digging the well, but did the bowls belong to the finders or to the men on whose land they’d been discovered? The silver was valuable, worth a great deal of money. If the wellers had had any sense, they would have kept quiet concerning their find, but perhaps they were unable to. One or both of the brothers might have been present when the bowls were dug up.’

‘Go on,’ Theresa urged as I paused for another swig of ale. ‘I realize that you’ve already told us all this once, but I wasn’t attending properly the first time.’

‘There’s nothing much more to tell,’ I shrugged. ‘I think it probable that the wellers walked off with the bowls. When the brothers discovered what they’d done, they went after them and killed them. They carried their treasure back to Upper Brockhurst Hall, assuming that the murders would be put down to the work of outlaws or footpads. Sometime, doubtless, they would have intended taking their booty to either Gloucester or Bristol, or even, maybe, to London, in order to sell it. But they died in the outbreak of plague that wiped out the whole village a few days later.’

‘You don’t know any of this for certain,’ Maud reiterated scathingly as she whisked the ale jug out of my reach and began once again to clear the table. I had often seen Adela move in just such a fashion, like a sleepwalker, as she performed a task that she did several times a day, barely conscious of her actions, her mind elsewhere. I would have given much to know what, or of whom, Maud was thinking just then, with that glazed, faraway look in her eyes.

Her thoughts, whatever they were, were interrupted by a knock on the cottage door. She called out, ‘Come in! It’s not bolted,’ and, to prove her point, stepped forward to unlatch it.

Rob Pomphrey stood on the threshold, rubbing first one foot and then the other against the back of the opposite leg, in a vain attempt to rid his shoes of their coating of mud. His nose, red and running from the cold, sniffed appreciatively at the smell of roast rabbit that lingered tantalizingly on the air.

Maud laughed. ‘Come and sit down, Rob. Have some dinner. If you don’t mind the burnt scrapings from around the dish, I can probably top a trencher for you.’

I have rarely seen a man move faster. He was seated at the table before Maud had finished reaching into the bread crock to find a hunk of stale loaf. From this, she hacked a thick slice which she placed in front of him; then, with knife and spoon, she scraped the earthenware pot clean of its remaining meat and vegetables.

Rob set to with a will, producing his own knife and hacking the trencher in half. He then proceeded to stuff his mouth so full that it was impossible for him to speak for several minutes. He could only nod or shake his head in response to the two women’s enquiries about his family.

Eventually, however, when he had washed down his impromptu meal with what was left of the ale in the bottom of the jug, he solemnly announced, ‘Been talking to Billy Tyrrell.’

‘What were you doing up at Dragonswick Farm?’ Theresa wanted to know, ignoring the obvious question, to Rob’s palpable irritation. ‘I thought you were shepherding for one of the farms on the opposite side of the valley these days.’

Rob wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘True enough, Mistress. But my master wanted me to consult with Billy ’bout washing the sheep.’ He sighed, realizing from Theresa’s bemused expression that he would be forced to give details before he was allowed to proceed any further with his news. ‘We usually wash our flock and the Rawbones’ together. This year, Master’s keen to do it as early as possible. Some of them old ewes get real dirty during the winter. Lot o’ foul wool and excrement trapped round their udders. Washing sheep means we got to dam up the stream fer a day or two, so Master tells me, “Get that Billy Tyrrell to find out whereabouts Ned Rawbone’s goin’ to make the pool this year.” Further upstream than last, he’s hoping. Village folk get funny if water supply’s dammed up fer too long.’ Rob stuffed the last piece of trencher into his mouth and licked his lips. ‘That was good, missus,’ he complimented Maud as he finished his ale. ‘But none o’ this is what I come to tell you.’

At this juncture, Theresa pointedly moved her stool another foot or so away from Rob, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the strong smell of sheep emanating from his clothing. It was plain to me that she had never really grown accustomed to the scents and sounds of the countryside. She would have been happier, and so undoubtedly would Maud, if she had gone home to live in the city with its stench of drains and rotting garbage and its eternal ringing of the bells.

Maud and Rob Pomphrey ignored her, the former out of habit, the latter because he was completely unaware of giving offence. Other people’s thoughts and opinions didn’t interest him.

‘Wouldn’t call here just t’ talk about sheep, now would I?’ he went on.

Maud smiled as her mother-in-law sighed in frustration. ‘Why have you come, Rob?’ she asked gently.

‘Well …’ Rob leaned his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. ‘Thought p’raps as how I ought to warn you. Billy thinks Tom Rawbone’s come back and is hiding in the house up there.’

I again recalled the figure I had seen moving on the hillside the previous evening, and at Rob’s words, it occurred to me that it might have been Tom sneaking home for the night.

‘Then the village elders should be informed at once,’ Theresa said sharply.

Maud asked, ‘Is Billy sure of this, Rob?’

The shepherd shook his tousled head and answered cautiously, ‘Not sure, no. Not absolutely. But he’s got the idea fixed in his head fer some reason or other. Mind,’ he added fairly, ‘you know what a feather-brain Billy can be. Anyone who’d graze sheep in same pasture as your geese … Well, ’nough said! But just in case he’s right, I thought you goodies ought to be on your guard.’ He pushed his plate to one side and belched loudly. ‘That were a good dinner, Mistress Lilywhite, and no mistake. Better’n I’d get at home.’

Maud smiled, ‘That’s a slur on your wife, Rob Pomphrey.’

‘No, it ain’t,’ was the positive answer. ‘You know full well my Doll can’t cook. Never could, lord love ’er.’

‘Never mind your Doll and her lack of culinary talent,’ Theresa cut in angrily, while Rob looked bewildered. ‘Are you going to report Billy Tyrrell’s suspicions to the elders or not?’

‘No, why should I, Missus? Billy’s only guessin’.’

Rob looked even more discomfited, and it occurred to me that he had only used the shepherd boy’s story as an excuse to call on Maud Lilywhite in the hope of a better Sunday dinner than the one waiting for him at home. And he hadn’t been disappointed.

‘Why should you?’ Theresa demanded wrathfully. ‘Because, my good man, Tom Rawbone is wanted for assaulting both Lambert Miller and Sir Anselm, two innocent men asleep in their beds. He’s a wanted criminal.’

Rob shook his head stubbornly. ‘I ain’t raising the hue and cry against any man, whatever he’s done. I only come here to warn you and Dame Maud to be on your guard because you’re two women on your own, and dwell away from the village. It might scare you if you come across Tom sudden like, and you weren’t expectin’ to see ’im.’ He turned in some distress to Maud. ‘I ain’t peaching to the elders.’

She patted his hand. ‘Of course you’re not, Rob. And Billy’s probably wrong. I don’t suppose for a minute that Tom would be so foolhardy as to return to Dragonswick. Not so soon, at any rate.’

There was something about Maud’s calm reception of the news, her lack of questions, her soothing reassurance that Billy Tyrrell was most probably mistaken, that suddenly convinced me she already knew about Tom. It also suggested to me a lack of animosity towards him that made nonsense of her earlier assertion that she believed Tom Rawbone to be her daughter’s murderer. Had he, I wondered, been her midnight visitor, however unlikely that might seem?

‘Maud—!’ Theresa was beginning heatedly, but her daughter-in-law rounded on her just as angrily.

‘Be quiet, Mother-in-law! Stop interfering in matters that don’t concern you. You’ve never understood country ways, and you never will!’ She swallowed hard and smiled at the shepherd. ‘Thank you for warning us, Rob. You’ve put us on our guard. But Billy’s story isn’t worth taking seriously, I feel certain.’

‘You won’t breathe a word to anyone else, Mistress, will you? Not ’bout what I’ve just told you. Let Billy take the blame if anything’s to be said. I don’t want to get in bad with the Rawbones.’

‘Of course we shan’t say anything,’ Maud assured him, as he rose to take his leave. ‘Take care, now, and give my love to Doll. I’ll be seeing her around.’

‘Ar, I will that.’ Rob sighed reminiscently. ‘That were good food, that were, Missus. Gilbert always used to say as how you was a good cook, I remember. “Whatever else she is or isn’t, Maud’s a good cook. I’ll give her that.” Those were his very words, and he weren’t wrong. I’ll testify to that on oath.’

The cottage door closed behind him. There was a short silence before Theresa asked, ‘What are we going to do, Maud?’ She looked at me. ‘Chapman, would you walk down to the village and speak to one of the elders? Tell him—’

‘You’re to do nothing of the sort,’ Maud told me firmly. ‘The story’s a bag of moonshine, Mother-in-law. Oh, I don’t doubt Billy said something of the sort to Rob, but I feel sure that Rob himself would have dismissed it as nonsense if he hadn’t smelled the rabbit as he was passing and fancied a free dinner. It’s true his Doll’s a deplorable cook. What Billy had just told him served as an excellent excuse to call in. That’s all.’

Faced with the younger woman’s calm assertion, Theresa subsided on to her stool, defeated. In spite of all her domineering ways, it was Maud who really ruled the roost in the cottage, a conclusion it had taken me a day or two to reach.

‘Very well,’ Theresa conceded. ‘But when we’re discovered dead in our beds – especially now that you’ve given Master Chapman his marching orders, leaving us totally unprotected – perhaps you’ll finally admit that I was right in wishing to take Rob Pomphrey’s story to the elders.’

Half an hour later, as I climbed the pasture towards Upper Brockhurst ridge, having left Hercules twitching deliriously and dreaming his canine dreams before the Lilywhites’ fire, I mulled over the shepherd’s visit; in particular, his repetition of Gilbert Lilywhite’s remark, ‘Whatever else she is or isn’t, Maud’s a good cook.’ Odd words indeed from a doting husband. ‘Whatever else she is …’ What else could she have been but the woman he loved? And who had loved him enough in return to reject Ned Rawbone’s proposal of marriage for his own?

But was that version of events the true one? Something that Dame Jacquetta had told me surfaced suddenly in my mind; that Ned had married Petronelle to please his father. ‘She wouldn’t have been Ned’s choice, I’m sure, left to himself, but Nathaniel insisted and, as ever, my nephew did as he was bidden.’ Those had been the dame’s very words. So, what was the truth of the matter? Was it that Maud had fallen head over heels in love with the handsome young stranger to Lower Brockhurst, and determined to ensnare him at all costs? This was Theresa’s story. Or had Maud married Gilbert Lilywhite as second best, because Ned had obeyed his father’s injunction to marry Petronelle? And was the fact of any consequence? Did the answer affect what had happened to Eris Lilywhite one way or the other?

I was following, as always, the course of the Draco, climbing upwards as it lisped and rippled downhill to the village below. The noonday sky was growing stormy, torn into rags of cloud by a rising wind. Glancing behind me, I saw bigger, greyer clouds shouldering their way across the hills on the opposite side of the valley; hills that stood surly and black, humping their backs against the approaching rain until, suddenly, they were completely blotted out. And here came the rain, marching across the valley, trailing and swishing its long, transparent skirts with the fury of a woman scorned. Then it was falling all around me, doing its best to soak me to the skin.

I was by this time on a level with Dragonswick Farm, some quarter-mile away to my left across the sheep-bitten pasture, and I made a dash for it, telling myself that it was only sensible to seek shelter. (In the far distance, I glimpsed Billy Tyrrell running for the little shepherd’s hut, higher up the hill.) I made my sodden way to the back of the farmhouse, knocked on the kitchen door and let myself in without waiting for an invitation.

Ruth Hodges was alone, boiling water over the fire preparatory to washing the dirty dinner dishes stacked on the table. She glanced up enquiringly as I entered.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, shrugging her thin shoulders.

‘Can I stay here until the storm’s past?’ I asked, shaking myself like a dog and stripping off my wet cloak, which I flung over a stool near the hearth.

‘If you want,’ she answered indifferently, making it plain that she was a girl on whom my famous charm and dazzling good looks had no effect whatsoever. (Sadly, there were far too many of those in the world.)

‘Dinner’s over, then.’ I nodded towards the pile of wooden platters and a line of cups and mazers.

‘It’s midday,’ she answered scornfully. ‘Course dinner’s over. Supper’s not more’n four hours away.’ For the first time since my arrival, she gave me her full attention. ‘You’re wet,’ she discovered. ‘Is it raining?’

‘Lashing down,’ I said, gallantly suppressing a ruder retort. ‘But I don’t think it’ll last long. It’s too heavy to be prolonged.’

She poured hot water into a bowl, added a jug of cold from the barrel in the corner, found a cloth and a bunch of twigs for scouring the dirtier pots and set about her task, if not with a will, then at least with resignation.

I waited a minute or two, warming myself by the fire, before saying abruptly, and making it a statement, not a question, ‘I hear Master Tom’s returned.’

She was caught off guard. ‘How d’you know that?’ she asked involuntarily, then broke off, staring at me in round-eyed dismay. ‘It’s s’posed to be a secret. Master Ned’ll kill me if he thinks I’ve said ’nything.’