The Tintern Treasure (18 page)

‘What's the matter?' I hissed.

He gave a little bark and his whole body tensed, but a moment later, a cat sauntered out of the narrow alleyway between the goldsmith's shop and its neighbour. I was caught unawares and, before I could stop him, Hercules, breathing fire and slaughter, had wriggled free of my grasp and hurled himself in the direction of the unsuspecting interloper who dived back into the alleyway and was soon swallowed up by the shadows.

Cursing fluently, I made a lunge at the dog, just managing to grab him at the expense of a twisted ankle and a grazed hand. He protested violently, but I was angry enough to clip him across the nose, for which indignity he tried first to bite me before finally settling down again under my arm, but emitting a series of little growls just to let me know of his displeasure.

‘There's no one there,' I said, returning to Henry Callowhill. ‘You probably saw a reflection of the torchlight.'

He laughed shortly. ‘Even if there was someone there, he isn't going to show himself now after all that commotion.'

‘There was no one there, I tell you. It was your imagination.' I felt certain that I was right and that it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.

We proceeded on up the street and into St Peter's Street, where the bells of St Peter's Church were just beginning to toll for Vespers.

There were lights in the ground-floor windows of Gilbert Foliot's imposing house and the wall cressets had been lit. Henry Callowhill raised his hand and knocked on the door, which was answered after a brief delay by the goldsmith's housekeeper, Mistress Margery Dawes, who also acted as a companion to Ursula. As I think I mentioned somewhere earlier, she was a cousin of sorts to Lawyer Heathersett and had his slightly protuberant eyes, although that was the only real likeness. She was a big, full-bosomed creature, not in the first flush of youth, but not old enough, either, to have lost completely the romantic yearnings of her girlhood. It was generally accepted that she had connived at the secret meetings between Ursula and young Peter Noakes, even if she had not actively encouraged them.

‘Yes?' she queried, peering at us short-sightedly.

‘Who is it, Margery?' asked Gibert Foliot, his face suddenly appearing over her shoulder. It registered surprise. ‘My dear Henry! And Master Chapman! This is an honour indeed. Pray come in.'

Mistress Dawes, having been politely but firmly shouldered aside, the goldsmith held the door wide as we stepped into the splendid hall with its painted beams and carved figureheads, while I reminded myself to act as though this were my first visit. I doubted very much that Ursula had mentioned my earlier one to her father.

We followed our host into the same parlour that I had seen before, but this time a fire had been lit on the hearth and the rocking chair removed from the dais to stand beside it. Another armchair had also been introduced into the room, directly facing it, while between them stood a small table bearing a flask of what was undoubtedly wine and two very fine Venetian goblets. The goldsmith had obviously been entertaining.

He must have followed my gaze and said calmly, addressing himself to his friend, ‘A good job you didn't come earlier, Henry, or I couldn't have received you.' He waved a casual hand at the chairs and table. ‘I'm trying my best to persuade a certain gentleman to buy an extremely expensive gold necklace for his wife's birthday – so far, I must admit, without any luck. This was a private visit to display the goods without fear of interruption, and I was hoping some of my best malmsey might have done the trick. But, alas, he's still hesitating . . . Now, what can I do for you and Master Chapman? If it's about your wine bill . . .'

‘No, no!' Henry Callowhill was dismissive as though money were of no importance. ‘The thing is . . .' He paused, reluctant to continue, feeling, I could see, a little foolish.

‘Yes?' Master Foliot raised his finely marked eyebrows.

The wine merchant glanced imploringly in my direction and, taking pity on him, I explained the situation.

For a moment our host stared blankly, then he laughed and indicated that we should both sit down, waving Master Callowhill to the rocking chair and himself taking the armir opposite. That left me to pull out a stool from under the table, demonstrating that however wary of me he might be, and however friendly he might appear on the surface, there was still a social distinction between us.

‘Now, let me understand this, Henry,' he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, ‘you and Lawyer Heathersett think you're being watched by two or more bravos whose descriptions, if you'll pardon my saying so, could be that of at least a hundred men in this town. Let's face it, Bristol harbours as pretty a set of rogues as any other city in the kingdom and they are frequently to be met with in the streets. Why should you and Geoffrey feel yourself under any particular threat?'

‘You haven't seen anyone in particular, then, loitering around hereabouts?'

‘No. Nor do I expect to. Henry, you are allowing your imagination to get the better of you. Geoffrey also. Why, I'm not sure. Has it to do with the pedlar's murder?'

His friend looked a little hangdog. ‘I daresay,' he admitted. ‘But these men . . . their description does tally with that of the two men who killed Oliver Tockney.'

Up went the eyebrows again. ‘I wasn't aware we had a description of Tockney's murderers. Or even that we knew there were two.'

I said quietly, ‘I've spoken to a fellow who witnessed the attack. A beggar – or perhaps worse – whose mother lives in Pit Hay Lane.'

‘Indeed? And have you informed the necessary authorities of this?'

‘No one's interested. Oliver Tockney's dead and buried. Moreover, he was a stranger, not one of our own.'

The goldsmith pursed his lips. ‘That's true. Very true. You'd doubtless be wasting your time.' He turned once more to Henry Callowhill. ‘And having heard Master Chapman's tale, you're now convinced that the same men are the ones you say are watching you. Does Geoffrey agree?'

‘He doesn't know. Master Chapman's only just told me the story.'

‘And what do you think, Roger?'

The sudden familiarity threw me somewhat. ‘I – I don't know,' I stammered.

‘Well, I do.' The goldsmith rose and took up a stance with his back to the fire, raising his padded tunic slightly and rubbing his buttocks as they absorbed the welcome heat. ‘It's all in your mind, Henry. Yours and Geoffrey's. What with young Noakes's death at Tintern and now poor Tockney's murder, you've allowed things to breed ill fancies until you're jumping at your own shadows and seeing danger where none exists. Although why is a mystery to me. Neither event had anything to do with either of you. So pull yourself together, man! And stop listening to Heathersett. He's an old woman at the best of times.'

‘You're right.' Henry Callowhill spoke humbly, like a small boy who'd just been chastened by a schoolmaster. ‘I suppose,' he added in extenuation, ‘the danger we found ourselves in, in Wales, the rebellion, upset me. I – I assume all's safe now?'

‘Of course it is!' The goldsmith spoke scathingly. ‘What else did you expect with King Richard at the helm? A soldier of his experience, who's been fighting from his earliest years! And the latest information is that Henry Tudor is sailing back to Brittany with his tail between his legs. It seems he's found it impossible to land anywhere along the south coast of England. So you may rest easy in your bed, Henry. No bogey man is coming to get you.'

The wine merchant flushed scarlet and got to his feet with what dignity he could muster. It was plain that his host had gone a step too far. ‘Thank you for your advice, Gilbert,' he said quietly. ‘Master Chapman and I will be leaving now.'

‘Henry!' The goldsmith gave a rueful grin and stretched out a hand. ‘My cursed tongue! I'm sorry.'

His friend inclined his head. ‘Your apology is accepted. All the same, it's after curfew and Roger and I must be going. I bid you goodnight.'

And so we left, the two men apparently reconciled. But I had a feeling that the goldsmith's overhasty words, his scornful tone, would not easily be forgotten by his friend.

H
ercules and I accompanied the wine merchant as far as his house in Wine Street and said goodnight to him at his front door. He had been rather quiet during our walk, but roused himself from his abstraction to thank me for my company.

‘It's been my privilege, sir,' I bowed.

He raised his hand to knock for admittance, but hung on his heel for a moment. ‘Gilbert can be a little brusque at times,' he said, almost apologetically. ‘But he's a good friend. He has some peculiar ideas, but there's not a more loyal man in the whole of the West Country than him.'

I made no reply. Indeed, I wasn't at all sure what Henry Callowhill meant by the remark. It seemed to refute some accusation that had not been made, at least not by me. Nor by anybody else as far as I knew. So I let it go and, instead, pressed for an answer to a question which had been bothering me. ‘Master Callowhill, you said earlier that you thought there was some connection between the names of Despenser and Gurney. Have you, by any chance, recollected what it is?'

He stared at me for a few seconds, a little bemused by this sudden change of topic, then shook his head. ‘No. No, I'm afraid not.'

‘But you believe there is one?'

‘Well . . . Perhaps “believe” would be too strong a word. It was just a momentary feeling, that's all.'

I hesitated before asking, ‘If you should remember, will you let me know?'

He looked faintly surprised, but nodded. ‘Certainly if you think it important. Is it?'

‘I've no idea,' I replied truthfully. ‘Probably not. But it might be.'

‘Then I promise.' He extended his right hand, a great condescension, and grasped mine. ‘Goodnight again, Master Chapman. And, once more, thank you.'

His knock was answered almost immediately by a young servant girl, the candle- and lamplight spilling out into the street and gilding the piles of rubbish overflowing from the central drain and awaiting tomorrow's muckrakers. The wine merchant gave me a final nod before the door was closed behind him.

I glanced down at the patiently waiting Hercules. He was by now too tired even to protest at all these delays. I stooped and picked him up, holding him under my left arm and grasping my cudgel firmly in my right. Both suddenly seemed to weigh a ton and my back was aching. All the same, I wasn't quite ready to give up yet. ‘Sorry, lad,' I whispered. ‘I just want to go back to St Mary le Port Street. I promise you we won't be long. I'm as anxious to get home as you are.'

He gave a half-hearted growl, but couldn't be bothered to register his displeasure more forcefully.

The streets were far less crowded than they had been, those people who were still abroad being, for the most part, cosily ensconced in their favourite ale-houses, the remainder tucked up safely by their firesides. Of course that meant that those people I did encounter were the more likely to be on some nefarious business of their own, but it was still too early for the real rogues to be up and doing, and I retraced my steps to St Mary le Port Street scornful of any lurking danger.

Once again, I stopped opposite the goldsmith's shop, where I stood looking at it closely for several minutes, then crossed the road and entered the alleyway between it and the bakery next door. It was pitch black here and I had to pause while my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Eventually, however, I was able to make out a door which must lead into the back of the ground-floor living-quarters – kitchen, scullery, counting-house – and beyond that a small yard with a bedraggled-looking tree and a few sad bushes just visible over the top of a wall. There was a gate which gave access to it – an important factor as far as I was concerned for, a moment later, I heard a key rattle in the lock of the door.

The lock, fortunately, seemed to be somewhat rusty, judging by the fact that its wards refused to turn easily. This gave me time to push wide the gate into the yard and conceal myself and Hercules behind one of the bushes before the door finally opened. Someone stepped into the alleyway, cursing softly and the dog gave a little whimper which I hushed, waiting to find out in which direction the unseen interloper would go. He trod quietly, and it was only because his foot disturbed a loose stone that I realized he was heading towards St Mary le Port Street. I emerged from the yard just in time to see him disappear around the corner of the bakery, turning left and making for the junction with High Street.

In a few swift strides I, too, had reached the corner and was staring after the man as he proceeded on his way, every now and then glancing back over one shoulder to ensure that he was being neither followed nor observed. I had drawn back into the shadows cast by the goldsmith's shop, which appeared to afford sufficient protection.

I stared after the retreating figure and suddenly drew a sharp breath. Hercules gave an indignant yelp as he was crushed against my ribs, but I took no notice. Without any justification whatsoever, I was convinced that I had seen the man before, last night in the courtyard of the Despenser manor, talking to Sir Lionel. Walter Gurney? Maybe. Or then again, maybe not. But whoever the man was, and whatever his name, I felt sure that it was the same person. Why I was so certain I had no idea, but there was something about the shape of his back, his height, the way he moved that was instantly familiar.

Cautiously, I followed him.

I reckoned that at the end of the street he was bound to turn right, into the heart of the town. He must have left the horse tethered somewhere, or else at the livery stable in Bell Lane. Indeed, so certain was I of this, that I had begun to cross the road in anticipation of his move when, to my astonishment, he swung sharply left again, towards Bristol Bridge and the Backs.