13 - The Midsummer Rose (4 page)

She retorted now, a slight edge to her voice, ‘You mentioned a murder. It was my duty, as a good citizen, to find out if this were true or no. I reported the fact to Richard. He promised to investigate and rode out to Rownham Passage yesterday morning to make enquiries.’

‘And what did our bloodhound discover?’ I asked nastily.

‘Don’t be childish, Roger.’ My wife reproved me in the tone she normally reserved for scolding the children. ‘Richard spoke to the ferryman – whose name, by the way, is Jason Tyrrwhit – and he confirmed that you hadn’t sought shelter in the alehouse during the storm, but set off along the St Brendan’s track. He was utterly astonished to find you floating in the river half an hour later, and was completely at a loss as to how you came to fall in.’

‘I did not fall in!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve told you what happened! You just won’t believe me!’

‘Hush!’ Adela laid a warning fingertip on my lips. ‘Let the others sleep for a while. Margaret is sharing Elizabeth’s room, and that child is a very light sleeper.’

‘So what else did Richard discover?’ I demanded angrily. But I lowered my voice.

‘Someone told him that the owner of the ‘murder’ house could be a James Witherspoon, nephew of the murdered man. When the two women were executed, the house passed to him.’

‘And what did he have to say?’ My heart was slamming against my ribs as my excitement mounted.

‘Nothing. No one of that name lives in Rownham Passage any more. It appears the house has stood empty ever since the murder. As far as anyone knows, it hasn’t been occupied for fifty years.’

‘It’s a lie!’ I exclaimed furiously. ‘There were two women and a man stopping in that house only last week. And there were a couple of horses in the hovel near the track! Why won’t anyone take me seriously?’

‘Sweetheart, we would,’ my wife assured me soothingly, ‘if there were any evidence to back up your story.’

‘Then what really happened? Tell me that!’ There was a pregnant silence. I waited grimly as realization dawned that my womenfolk had already concocted their own version of events. ‘Well?’

‘Richard …’ My wife produced the name tentatively, rather like someone proffering a handful of truffles to a wild boar. She cleared her throat. ‘Richard says that the ferryman told him you were talking somewhat wildly on the journey across from Ashton-Leigh. Something about building a bridge between the summit of Ghyston Cliff and the opposite heights. He thought maybe you’d got a touch of the sun. It was extremely hot the Wednesday morning of last week. He – we thought that perhaps you’d grown confused in your mind and wandered off the track down to the water’s edge, where … where you became faint or dizzy – or both – and fell in.’

I was so taken aback that I was rendered speechless for at least half a minute. Finally, I forced out, ‘It was raining! The heavens had opened! There was a violent summer squall! The weather conditions alone would have revived me if I’d been feeling faint.’ I drew a deep breath, trying to contain my frustration. ‘Adela … My love … I know what I saw and what happened to me. There were two horses, three people. They weren’t figments of my imagination.’

‘So what did these people look like?’ she asked.

This was better. Here, I was on surer ground. I plunged confidently into a description of the woman in brown sarcenet.

‘Tall, with a fine, big-breasted figure—’

‘Trust you to notice that,’ Adela grumbled, ‘even in a dream.’

‘About our age, maybe a little older, but not by much. Handsome face. I think her eyebrows were reddish in colour, which probably means she also has red hair. I didn’t have time to notice her eyes. Spoke and moved like someone used to command. A mistress, not a servant. Her gown was made of silk. Oh, and she had a black leather girdle, tipped with silver tags studded with turquoises. Good, brown leather shoes.’

I could see that this detailed picture had impressed Adela more than she would admit. She was looking thoughtful. ‘So, what about the other two?’ she pressed.

There was silence for a moment, during which I realized that what I had been thinking was solid ground was really a quagmire.

‘I … er … I didn’t see the man who was with them at all,’ I confessed reluctantly. ‘Just heard his voice. But I can tell you that he spoke with a peculiar accent. Not one I know. I couldn’t recognize it, if I’m honest.’

‘And the other woman?’

‘She …’ I tried to sound confident. ‘She had on a blue brocade gown – or skirt – and red leather shoes.’

‘And that’s all you can say about her?’

‘That’s all I saw.’ The admission sounded damning, even to my ears. ‘I was just recovering from a vicious blow to the back of my head,’ I added defensively.

Adela said nothing, and I could see only too clearly what she and Margaret had made of my story. They had talked it over and reached the simple conclusion that I had been adversely affected by the hot weather. My reported remarks to the ferryman had made that a certainty, not only in their eyes, but also in those of Richard Manifold and this Jason Tyrrwhit himself. Later, approaching the ‘murder’ house as I walked along the St Brendan’s track, I had been reminded of the killing and taken ill at one and the same time. I had wandered, not knowing what I was doing, down to the river’s edge and there dropped my pack and cudgel as I lost consciousness, falling into the water …

Might it really have happened like that?

No! My womenfolk had got me doubting the evidence of my own senses.

‘And the Irish sea captain?’ Adela’s voice cut across my teeming thoughts. ‘What was he like? You haven’t described him.’

The Irishman! Of course! How had I managed to forget him? I even knew his name. Well, I ought to have known his name; the man had proclaimed it loudly enough. Memory, however, was playing tricks on me – not surprisingly, I suppose, considering everything I had been through in the past week or more, but its loss was inconvenient at this juncture.

‘He was a big man,’ I said, ‘from the south of Ireland.’ I spoke with confidence. The southern Irish lilt was as familiar around the Bristol streets and Backs as our own west country burr. ‘He wore thick-soled boots, frieze breeches and had hands as big as shovels. He also carried a knife, but I’ve already explained that. Unfortunately, I didn’t see his face.’

There was a protracted silence before Adela whispered, ‘The man who was murdered in that house, all those years ago, was an Irishman. But I expect you know that. Lillis must have mentioned it when she told you the tale.’

B
reakfast was an uncomfortable meal.

I was in a foul mood and the children, sensing it, tiptoed round me with unusual caution. Margaret stated her intention to return to Redcliffe forthwith before lapsing into guarded silence. Even Hercules slunk off to some distant corner of the house that he had made his own. Only Adela made a brave attempt at conversation, although she soon gave up.

She had urged me to stay in bed, warning me that I would feel extremely weak after more than a week’s inactivity. But I knew better. Of course I did. I was a man – one, moreover, who had experienced very little sickness in his life and who prided himself on his strength and resilience to any kind of illness. But Adela was right. Lying in bed I had felt fine. Getting dressed, washing at the pump in the tiny yard behind our house and forcing myself to swallow oatcakes and a thick collop of bacon, had been an altogether different matter. Quite apart from the fact that my legs didn’t want to do as they were told, my head still swam from the effects of the potions administered to me over the past few days by Adela. But I wasn’t going to let bodily weakness get the better of me.

When I announced I was going out after breakfast, my wife didn’t argue. She merely advised: ‘If you’re going to Rownham Passage, hire a nag from the livery stable in Bell Lane. You’re in no fit condition to walk all that way.’ I scowled and Adela burst out laughing.

Her spontaneous merriment relieved the oppressive atmosphere and the children began to giggle. Even Margaret Walker managed the travesty of a smile. Adam, excitable as ever, flicked a spoonful of porridge in my direction and scored a bullseye on my nose. I forced myself to smile at him reassuringly.

‘You don’t mean to go as far as Rownham Passage in your state of health, do you?’ Margaret demanded, jeopardizing my newly restored good humour. ‘Not just to prove this ridiculous tale of yours is true?’

‘Roger must do as he sees fit,’ my wife said warningly. ‘He is the head of the household, after all.’

Margaret gave a derisive snort. ‘If he believes that, he’ll believe anything. And he’s not the head of
my
household. I can tell him the truth.’

‘Not under this roof,’ Adela answered quietly, before adding, ‘Besides, there just might be something in his story.’

‘What do you mean? What’s changed your mind?’ I stuttered.

‘You’re humouring him,’ Margaret accused.

‘Nothing’s changed my mind, and I’m not humouring him. But …’ She paused long enough to encourage the children, who had finished eating, to run away and play. The elder two thundered upstairs, where they charged around like stampeding horses. The noise did my headache no good at all, but I did my best to ignore it. Adam performed his crab-like crawl and shuffled off to a corner of the kitchen, where he beat out a tune on the stone-tiled floor with his spoon. I ignored that as well.

‘But?’ I encouraged my wife, while Margaret looked sceptical.

‘It’s nothing, really.’ Adela took a deep breath and clasped her hands together on the table. ‘It’s just that a week ago, while you were still on the road, Robin Avenel’s widowed sister came to stay with him …’

Here, Margaret interrupted, anxious to fill in details which someone who had had the misfortune not to be born in Bristol might not know.

‘Bess Avenel married into the Alefounder family. Her late husband’s uncle is Alderman Gregory Alefounder. Well, you can’t help but know who he is. Owns the biggest brewery in the city. But, more than that, her sister-in-law, that little fly-by-night Robin Avenel married, is Gregory Alefounder’s daughter. Jeffery, Bess’s husband, wasn’t interested in the brewing business. He preferred to lead the life of a country gentleman. His father, Gregory’s older brother, indulged him and let Jeffery live at home on the family manor near Frome. When he died, Jeffery inherited the house and lands, and Bess, in her turn, inherited them from him. She still lives there, no doubt queening it over her tenants and the local peasantry.’ Margaret’s tone was acerbic. Elizabeth Alefounder was plainly no favourite of hers.

‘Thank you, Mother-in-law,’ I said gravely and raised my eyebrows at Adela. ‘So, what about this Bess Alefounder, sweetheart? What does she have to do with me?’

‘As I was saying, she arrived in Broad Street to stay with Master Avenel while you were away. I think it was the Saturday before you were brought home. Her maid came with her and they must have been there now for almost a fortnight. I’ve seen Mistress Alefounder around on several occasions. It was Richard who first pointed her out to me.’

‘Go on.’ I nobly refrained from enquiring what she was doing in the company of Richard Manifold. (A chance meeting, of course. Really, I knew that without being told.)

Again, Adela hesitated. ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ she exclaimed at last, with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘It’s just that your description this morning of the woman in brown sarcenet reminded me a little of Elizabeth Alefounder.’

‘Aha!’ I shouted, disturbing Adam, who stopped banging his spoon on the floor and shuffled across to embrace one of my legs in an iron grip.

‘There’s no “Aha!” about it,’ my wife reproved me. ‘I said it reminded me
a little
. Now, sweetheart, please don’t go leaping to conclusions.’

‘I should think not, indeed!’ Margaret protested. ‘What on earth would a respectable woman like Bess Alefounder be doing mixed up in a murder? What nonsense it is! Why don’t you admit you were delirious, Roger, and simply dreamed it all?’

I could tell from Adela’s expression that she was reluctant to say anything further that might bolster my belief in my story, but her natural instinct to see justice done made her go on.

‘You forget, Cousin,’ she said gently, ‘that for the past year, ever since last summer, the Sheriff’s men have been keeping a close watch on Robin Avenel’s household. He was suspected, if you remember, of Lancastrian sympathies. If it had ever been proved that the man we all thought was a Tudor spy really had been one, then there’s no doubt, according to Richard Manifold, that Robin Avenel would have been arrested. As it was, with the stranger being murdered like that, nothing could be proved against him. Against Master Avenel, I mean.’

‘But what has that to do with his sister?’ Margaret demanded, rising from her stool. ‘I’m surprised at you, Adela, encouraging that great oaf in this piece of arrant folly. He was exposed to too much sun. He fell in the Avon. And in his delirium, he dreamed he saw the re-enactment of an old murder, which he had recalled while passing the house where it happened. That’s all there is to it. Now, I’m going upstairs to collect my things, and then I’m going home. You don’t need me any longer, not now that Roger is up and about once more. And I’ve been away from Redcliffe for far too long. Goodness knows what’s been happening in my absence. Maria Watkins and Bess Simnel will have been having things all their own way.’

Adela made a half-hearted attempt to persuade her cousin to stay, but I think, secretly, she was as anxious as I was to see her go. Margaret Walker was a woman with a heart of gold, an excellent friend in times of trouble, totally to be relied upon. But she was also domineering and liked to be in charge, whether at home or in someone else’s house. A wearing woman whose strength of will necessitated constant combating with one’s own.

I barely registered her decision to leave, I was so busy mulling over what Adela had said. I abandoned all thought of visiting Rownham Passage for the present. My first priority now was to try to catch a glimpse of Mistress Alefounder. I freed myself from Adam’s hold and got unsteadily to my feet.